Charity in the Age of Modern Marvels
by Susan M. Garrett
Summary: Jules Verne unexpectantly acquires a dependant and an enemy at the same time.
1. Chapter 1

**TITLE: Charity in the Age of Marvels**

**AUTHOR: ** Susan M. Garrett (susanmgarrett@earthlink.net) 

**CATEGORY: ** Melodrama. 

**RATING/WARNINGS: ** Generally a PG, with an occasional R topic. There are some disturbing subjects intimated, but not discussed. If you have any issues with any kind of abuse of children, this story WILL upset you. Walk away now and no one will think the less of you for it. 

**MAIN CHARACTERS: ** Everyone. 

**THANKS: ** Thank you for reading with the understanding that I take responsibility only for mistakes of misspelling and grammar. What the characters do and say is entirely up to them. 

**** 

**Chapter 1 - _In which Jules Verne acquires a guest_**

It was one of those evenings that defined the reason Jules Verne had obeyed his father and left his home in Nantes to study law in Paris; the whispers of summer still lingered on the occasional autumn night, the moon was near full, and his friends were, as usual, getting royally drunk on the cheapest wine they could afford. 

Theon and Norris were having a mock-battle over the last glass of wine poured from the bottle. He laughed as they splashed more wine on themselves than managed to get down their throats. 

"Enough!" cried the proprietor, a large man with equally large and meaty fists. He lifted Theon from the floor by the back of his collar with one hand and grabbed a wild-eyed Norris by the shirtfront with the other. "Damned students," he muttered, dragging them to the door. 

Grabbing his notebook, Jules then reached across the table to down the last of the wine in the abandoned glass. He followed the proprietor to the door, but backed up, hands raised chest-high in a moment of surrender when the man swung on him warily. 

"You students! Tend to your books instead of the bottles!" the proprietor growled, slapping the flat of his hand heavily against the notebook and Jules' chest. 

The force of the blow, however light, dropped him back a step and Jules slammed his back into the doorframe. "But then how would you make any money?" he countered. 

"From respectable people!" 

Jules stared at the man through bleary eyes - the world was beginning to swim. "I know - I _know_ respectable people and they wouldn't _dare_ set foot in a place like this!" 

The proprietor's fist was raised and headed toward him. Before Jules could blink, he felt a tug on the back of his jacket collar. He was suddenly sitting on his rear in the unswept cobblestone street, Theon and Norris standing above him. 

The proprietor came to the doorway and shook his fist at them. "If I see you in here again, I'll throw you all into the street. Filthy rabble!" 

"We'd rather stay in the street!" replied Jules, but Norris placed an arm under his elbow and attempted to lift him to his feet. 

"Jules! Will you get us barred from every tavern in Paris?" 

"Who cares? Only the better-class establishments," noted Theon, with a slight hiccup. "And in a few weeks, most of my allowance will be gone, so I wouldn't be able to afford to vis-visisit them anyway." 

"You're drunk," noted Jules, who was still trying to fight his way up off the stone-paved street. Despite Norris' valiant efforts, they were both sitting on the ground now. "I'm drunk, too." 

The bells of Paris began to toll, two hours past midnight. Jules looked up at the night sky, wondering if he might see the shadow of the Aurora overhead. It had been two weeks since he'd last seen his English friends and in that time there had been no uncommon occurrences; just classes, hasty meals of stale bread and cheese, dreams of machines and places beyond his imagining, and long nights trying to recapture those visions in his notebook. 

His friends from the Aurora were, as the proprietor had said, respectable people. He was a poor law student in Paris. Each time he said goodbye to them, he wondered if he'd ever seen them again, if they'd tire of his company. 

There was an upward tug on his elbow. 

"Make an effort, Jules, or I'll leave you here," warned Theon. "There are ladies waiting and I don't intend to disappoint them." 

He looked up to find Norris already on his feet, albeit swaying slightly. Or maybe Norris wasn't swaying and it was just that his eyes were unable to focus? 

It was an effort to get to his feet without dropping the notebook, but he did so. 

"I thought you said you were out of money?" Norris _was_ swaying, now seething with righteous indignation. "You pig! I paid for that last bottle!" 

"I said I was _going_ to be out of money soon," countered Theon. "It's a fine point of the language, the very embodiment of doctrinal law--" 

"No," groaned Jules, placing his hands over his ears - made even more difficult by the fact that he was holding his sketchbook in one hand. "No more theology, Theon. I'm going home." 

As Jules turned to go, Theon, who only seemed to become more agile after one too many glasses of bad wine, slipped in front of him, stopping him. "And miss Madame Larout's girls? I have enough money for each of us," he untied his purse from his belt and jangled it, letting them hear the coins rattle inside. "You can pay me later." 

"Thank you, my friend, but not tonight." Jules placed his hand on Theon's shoulder, patting it as if to thank him, but also pushing him out of the way so that he could stagger home. 

Norris was suddenly on his other side, catching hold of his arm. "Jules, are you mad? She has the loveliest girls in Paris!" 

"The loveliest that _we_ can afford," corrected Theon. "But they're young. Still pretty. There are some new girls fresh from the country - she said she brought them in especially for us, the students! You wouldn't want them to be wasted on a bunch of old men, would you?" 

Norris released Jules, nearly spinning him around, as he turned on Theon. "You've been to Madame Larout's already? And you didn't ask me to come along? You _are_ a pig!" 

Theon held off Norris' attempts to punch him by placing a hand on his forehead and holding him at arm's length. "You idiot - never insult the man who's going to pay for your night's pleasure. Jules, you must come with us - I'd like to have some civil conversation with someone who has a brain. What's the matter? Aren't they pretty enough for you? Not young enough?" 

"I already have a mistress," countered Jules, tapping his notebook. "And she's jealous of the time I've already wasted with you buffoons." 

Norris had since given up on actually striking Theon and had taken a step back. "I think we've been insulted." 

"He's only insulted you," Theon told him. Grinning at Jules, he clapped an arm around Norris' shoulder. "Let's leave our friend to his muse. That means more money for us, eh? And you know what that will buy?" 

"More wine?" Norris asked, as they wandered away. 

"Yes. For you. Because if you pass out, I won't have to pay--" 

Jules laughed at their antics, then groaned aloud because the sound made his brain pound in his skull. He hated what the drink meant he'd feel like in the morning, but sometimes it stopped the visions. And if a heavy head and a dry mouth were the cost of a half-night's measure of blessed oblivion, so be it. 

It suddenly occurred to him, as he headed down the street toward his room, that he seldom had visions when he was flying aboard the Aurora. A few times, yes, but not like the average nights in his squalid attic room, when the images of terrible and beautiful things filled his head until he thought his mind would burst. He'd awaken drenched in sweat, his head pounding, knowing that the pressure wouldn't go away until he wrote or sketched every detail he that could remember into his notebook. The visions started to slip from him the moment he awakened and his breath would quicken in his chest as if his life depended on catching every nuance of the dream, fixing it on paper. He would write and draw until the morning sun crept over the chipped and broken sill of his room. Only then did it seem to release him and he would stumble to his bed, his hand cramped from the pen, his back aching from leaning too close to the page to gain what light he could from the dregs of the candle. He had spent more on candles these past few months than he had on food. 

And more of nearly nothing was even less. 

No wonder he looked to the sky for his friends and their airship. Was there something about flight, about being so high above the earth and among the clouds that relieved him of this burden? He would have to ask Arago. 

"Monsieur?" 

The voice was quiet and small. At first he thought it was a cat. Jules stopped suddenly, throwing his foot out to catch himself as he nearly toppled forward, then turned warily in the darkened street. 

It was a child, a girl no taller than four feet, if that. Her hair was dirty and unkempt, although hung long down past her shoulders and was held back by something tied in her hair. She wore a smock that was ragged and torn, but clumsily patched in places, and her feet were covered with strips of cloth bound together to form some sort of shoe. She stood in the middle of the street; her hands clasped together, fingers twisting around one another. 

"Monsieur?" she asked again. 

The wine that had fogged his brain seemed to dissipate - no little girl of that age should be wandering the dangerous streets of Paris at that late hour. He walked toward the child and knelt down at her feet. "Are you lost? Do you need help to find your home?" 

"I--" The child glanced back over her shoulder, into the darkness, then swallowed and faced him again. "Monsieur, you said that you would like someone younger. I am very young." 

"What?" asked Jules, not quite understanding. 

"I could kiss you and call you 'papa' if you like. And I won't cry unless you want me to." 

Jules rose to his feet as a man walked from the shadows; he found his hand instinctively going to the child's shoulder, pulling her nearer him. 

The newcomer was an elderly man, his grin nearly toothless, the stubble on his face days old. His clothing was in better shape than that of the child, but the stench that rose from him - a combination of drink and filth - nearly knocked Jules over. 

"Only a few coins more than your friends would pay for those older girls," hissed the man, with an air of camaraderie. "You can have her until morning. She's experienced, but fresh - no taint to her. You can do what you like with her." 

Jules looked down at the child, who placed her hand over his, then back up at the man. "Are you her father?" he asked in dismay. 

"I look out for her." He held out a hand, the palm worn, dirt mired in the very grooves of his fingers. "It's late - perhaps you pay a few centimes less because of the hour?" 

"No. I'm not paying anything." Pulling his hand away from the girl's shoulder, Jules backed away, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. "I don't want her." He looked around, but the streets were deserted and the houses dark. "I should call a gendarme--" 

"No need, no need," said the pimp pleasantly. He reached forward and grabbed a length of the girl's hair as if caressing it, drawing her toward him, even at the girl watched Jules with wide eyes. "We overheard, Monsieur, that was all. We were mistaken. Good night." 

He needed to turn and walk away, but something made him stay - perhaps the look of terror in the child's eyes. The pimp began to drag her behind him, murmuring, "You'll find a customer tonight, little bitch, or I'll know the reason why--" 

"Where--where are you taking her?" asked Jules. "Wait--" 

The sound of running steps on the cobblestones echoed in the narrow street - in the silence they seemed to come from everywhere. The pimp hesitated, looked left and right, as if trying to find a place to hide. Whistles sounded and there were shouts of "Thief! Thief!" 

A man appeared before them - working clothes, a cap, shoes, and a cloth bundle under his arm. He hesitated as he ran up to them, as if uncertain whether they would try to stop him. The pimp stepped forward as if to take the bundle from him by force, but then the sounds of pursuit were brought to reality by the appearance of two gendarmes. 

The thief turned toward the gendarmes, pulling a knife from his pocket as he moved. Seeing this, Jules ran forward and ducked low, catching the villain in the small of the back. The thief fell forward onto the cobblestones, the bundle spilling open and candlesticks and silverware clattering out onto the cobblestones. 

One of the gendarmes reached the man as he was rising and cuffed him on the side of the head with a stick - the thief didn't move. The other gendarme moved to Jules, who was picking himself up off the cobblestones. "Who are you?" 

"Jules Verne. I'm a student," he said, showing his notebook. "I'm on my way home from the tavern." 

The gendarme eyed him warily and nodded, as if he accepted the story. Then he caught sight of the child. "It's a bit late to have your sister up. Or is she yours?" 

The little girl had moved closer to him, hiding behind him as soon as the gendarmes appeared. 

"Mine?" squeaked Jules, his blood freezing as the intimations of the pimp ran through his mind again. But then he realized that the gendarme was asking a different question. "No," he said, forcing a laugh. "She's my sister. Mama sent her to find me. I was drinking with my friends, lost track of the time--" 

The gendarme nodded again, this time curtly. "Get home, then. Thanks for your help, but a student shouldn't keep such late hours at the tavern, Monsieur Verne. Or have their baby sisters drag them home." 

"Yes, sir. No, sir." Jules looked into the shadows of the building, but there was no sign of the pimp. He took the girl's hand and added aloud, "Let's go home." 

The child peered into the darkened alleyways and crevices just as he had, then looked up at him. When Jules smiled at her, she smiled back and she wrapped her fingers around his. Jules headed back to his room with the little girl in tow, certain that on some street up ahead the pimp would run into them and demand the child back. He could have told the gendarmes the truth, but would his story have been believed? And what would have happened to the child? He knew they locked up grown prostitutes, but would they jail children as well? 

The pimp never appeared. Jules surveyed the area cautiously as they approached his rooming house, but he saw no sign of anyone following them. Stopping at the door, he knelt down in front of the little girl. "Can you find your way home from here?" 

The child shook her head from side to side, still watching him with wide eyes. 

Sighing, Jules rose to his feet. "I suppose you'd better stay for the night. But be quiet - my landlady warned me not to keep any pets and I think she might object to children." 

He tugged on her hand to lead her upstairs, but the little girl hesitated. "What's wrong?" he asked. 

"I must be paid," she said in a small voice, holding out her palm. "If I don't give Dondre the money before I go upstairs, he beats me. I must be paid, Monsieur." 

Jules felt his throat tighten. He knelt down in front of the little girl again and placed his hands lightly on her shoulders. "What's your name?" 

"Aimee." 

"Aimee, my name is Jules. I won't make you go back to Dondre again. I won't hurt you. I won't let anyone hurt you." 

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I won't have to go back to Dondre? You've bought me from him?" 

"No, I haven't bought you." Jules wiped his hand across his face wearily - this wasn't working and his brain was fuzzy. He had younger sisters at home. Had he forgotten everything he'd ever known about dealing with children? "We'll talk about it in the morning, when I'm sober . . . and awake. Just come upstairs." 

The little girl watched him, her eyes still wary. Rising to his feet, Jules held out his hand and smiled at her. "Come on. I might have some bread and cheese for you, if the mice haven't gotten to it yet." 

The mention of food won her over. She swallowed as he spoke, then timidly placed her hand in his. Those eyes fixed on him, wide, but never trusting. 

Jules took the steps slowly, knowing every creak in every board . . . and that his landlady would toss him into the street if she found him sneaking a child into his tiny attic room. Quickly abandoning the idea of trying to teach the little girl where the wood would betray their presence, he leaned down and scooped her up in his arms. She made no protest and fell limp immediately, like a bag of washing. Her hands went around his neck. 

There was the smell of the old man about her and her clothing - dirt and drink and sordid grime. The feel of her fingers on the back of his neck was rougher than a child's should have been. The moment they entered his room, he lowered her to the floor; he couldn't wait to release her. 

She stood like a statue just inside the door, as Jules moved knowingly through the darkness of the room and lit the stub of a candle that was sitting on the table by the window. The quarter loaf of bread on the table had small marks around the edges. He picked up a paring knife and cut the nibbled bit from the crust, then held it up for her to see. 

"Are you hungry?" 

"Yes, Monsieur." 

But still Aimee stood at the doorway. 

"It's Jules. Call me 'Jules.'" Grabbing the cheese, he sat down on the step between the floor levels in the room, then patted the space beside himself. "Sit here." 

Only after he had instructed her to sit did the child move, snuggling close to him. He put an arm around her shoulder. "Here, I'll show you the proper way to slice the cheese, so you don't cut yourself." 

Aimee watched him flip the knife through the hard rind of the cheese; the blade came away with a soft, nearly transparent covering as the slice fell into his hand. He handed it to her and this time there was no need for instruction - it disappeared into her mouth and was gone before he could blink. 

There wasn't much left of the cheese. Throwing caution to the wind, Jules cut the remainder as best he could, pacing it out with bits of bread. He reached up to the table to grab a wine bottle that rested there - perhaps a quarter full. Unstopping the cork, he took a swallow . . . and immediately realized what a bad idea that was, as the alcohol in his system suddenly made itself known again. Before he could drop the bottle, he set it on the floor at his feet and leaned forward, his head in his hands. Not only did he not want to be sick at the moment, but he also didn't want to waste the cheese and bread he'd just eaten. 

His stomach queasy, Jules turned his head and found Aimee watching him. "There's water on the table," he managed. "If you want a drink." 

She was looking at the bottle at his feet. "That's wine." 

"You might call it that," admitted Jules, somewhat reluctantly to himself, as well as to her. 

"Dondre says not to drink wine because it makes me fall asleep and then they won't pay." She looked up at him. "But wine makes it not hurt so much." 

Jules stomach twisted again, but less from the excess of wine he'd had earlier than from what Aimee had said, and that her expression had never wavered, still blank. 

"It's time you went to bed," he told her. "There's a wash basin up there. Wash your face. And take off your shoes." 

"Yes, Monsieur." 

"Jules," he said softly. 

She backed up a step, as if she were afraid that he'd hit her. "Jules," she repeated, with a solemn expression. 

Jules watched her pour water into the battered porcelain basin, then he moved toward his bed. The sheet was almost as threadbare as the blanket, but not quite as patched. There was another blanket in a chest that Rebecca had left with him on some pretext - he'd washed it, aired it to dry, then folded it up and put it away, fully intending to return it to the Aurora. It wasn't as if she wanted it back, but he felt wrong keeping it. 

Only . . . it was soft, and blue and smelled like her, the light perfume she wore when she was dressed for an event, like the morning he'd unexpectedly been presented to Queen Victoria. Each time he left to meet his friends, he promised himself that he'd remember to take the blanket, but it always seemed to slip his mind. 

Jules opened the chest, took out the blanket, and then threw his old blanket to the floor. He shook the blue blanket over the sheet as best he could, then turned to see what had become of Aimee. 

She was not only washing her face in the basin, but her hands as well. After dabbing her wet face with the towel by the basin, she studied her features in the partially corroded glass on the washstand. 

"Shoes?" he reminded her. 

She jumped when she heard his voice and looked down guiltily, as if ashamed to have been caught looking in the mirror. Returning to the step on which they'd been seated, Aimee sat down and untied the cloths around her feet. There was a bundle of paper or light board at the center, which had seemed to serve as a sole. 

She needed shoes. Stockings. A better smock. A proper bath. Food. Toys. 

A family. 

There was no way to take her to Nantes. His mother would accept the child because she had that kind of heart, but not his father. There would be questions about how he had come about her. She was perhaps seven or eight, so it wasn't a matter of whether the child was his, but to whom else the child might have belonged. Until Jules could return satisfactory answers, his proud father wouldn't accept a waif like that into his household. 

No answer that he could give would satisfy his father in this situation. 

Aimee put her 'shoes' to one side and stood again, watching him. Her feet were dirty - but that could be handled in the morning. She should have something else to sleep in . . . . 

Jules picked up a bag beneath the window - there was a shirt inside, not fully worn, but the sleeve had been too badly torn on one of his adventures to be mended correctly. Rebecca had asked Passepartout to throw it away, but Jules had rescued it, knowing that it was worth a few centimes at least from the ragman. Thanking fate that he'd been too busy to visit the ragshop, he found the shirt - it had been washed, at least. Taking the paring knife, he hacked away the sleeves and fastened the front of the garment. "Here," he said, handing her the makeshift smock. "You can wear this to sleep. I'll find you something cleaner to wear tomorrow." 

Jules hadn't considered what the child might do - she surprised him by simply slipping the dirty rag of a smock over her head and letting it drop to the floor. She took the shirt from his hand and struggled into it the same way. 

In between, when he saw that she wore nothing beneath the smock but dirt and scars and purplish bruises, he could have wept. But he hid his feelings and smiled for her. Seating himself on the bed, he patted the blanket. "You'll sleep here." 

She walked toward him, still silent and obedient. As she approached, he pulled back the blanket and the bed-sheet. Aimee climbed into the bed without a word and lay quietly, her arms at her sides. Jules carefully replaced the coverlet up to her chin. He hesitated, then, not quite knowing what to do. Memories of bedtime at his family's house lingered. "Do you want to say your prayers before you sleep?" 

"I don't have any prayers." 

"All right." Leaning down, he kissed her forehead. "Good-night. If you get frightened, I'll be sleeping right here, beside the bed." 

As he began to shrug out of his jacket and fold it into a makeshift pillow. Aimee sat up suddenly, terror in her eyes. "Have I been bad, Jules?" she asked anxiously. 

"No, no," he said, cupping her face with his hand to reassure her. "You haven't been bad." 

"If I was bad, Dondre wouldn't sleep with me. And then he beat me. I won't be bad for you, Jules. Ever! I'll do everything you want, even if it hurts. I won't cry. I won't ever cry." 

There was panic in her voice. He sat down on the bed beside her and kissed her forehead again as much to quiet her as to comfort her - his landlady would take one look at the child wearing his shirt in his bed and-- 

"I don't sleep with little girls. I'm not angry with you. And I'm not going to hurt you. I promised that, remember?" 

When he drew back from her, she nodded, if uncertainly. 

"I want you to go to sleep now." He stroked her hair with his hand, then pressed her back against the meager pillow. "If you have bad dreams, I'll be right here," he gestured toward the floor beside the bed. 

She looked down at the floor, then back at him. "I don't dream anymore," she said solemnly. 

His first thought was that it might not be such a bad thing, but he smiled and patted her head again. "Then go to sleep. In the morning we'll see if we can find some eggs, all right?" 

Settling back against the pillow, Aimee's shy smile reappeared. "I like eggs." 

"So do I," he confided, casting a surreptitious glance toward the sock in which was hidden all of his worldly wealth. He wasn't about to admit to her what a luxury eggs could be for a struggling law student in Paris. 

The eggs seemed to have eased her mind somewhat, for her face had lost some of that mask-like quality. "Shall I kiss you good-night?" she asked. 

"If you like." 

She popped up from under the blankets, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him lightly on the lips. Then, just as quickly, she burrowed down beneath the blankets again, her head poking out from the protective cavern she'd formed. "Good-night, Jules," she whispered. 

"Good-night, Aimee." 

Tossing his wadded-up leather jacket onto the floor beside the bed, Jules couldn't decide whether to use the blanket as a mattress or padding. Realizing after a moment that the cloth was so thin that it didn't offer much protection or comfort either way, he paused only to blow out the candle. It was flickering, the diminished wick almost swallowed by the small pool of wax at the base - it wouldn't last him another night. 

Another expense. 

Placing the blanket around his shoulders, he made himself as comfortable as he could on the uneven boards of the ancient floor. Only one of the shudders had been pulled to, so that the moonlight entered, casting shadows around the room. The window had been propped open and with the traffic of the day having passed, the smells of the street had once again settled - the breeze was sweet and slightly chill, but not uncomfortably so. 

It was as he drowsed that he heard the music, a quiet singing. It took him a moment to realize that it wasn't coming from the street outside and below, but from the bed beside him. Aimee was singing and humming softly, so softly that only the absolute stillness allowed him to hear her senseless, wordless little tune. As it lulled him to sleep, he wished fervently that this night, at least, it might keep his visions at bay. 

That night, he did not dream. 

**** 

End of Chapter 1 


	2. Chapter 2

Charity In The Age of Modern Marvels (2/15) **** 

**Chapter 2 - _In which Rebecca considers pigeons_**

After glancing across the chessboard, Rebecca picked up a rook, circled it in the air a moment, then placed it firmly down upon a square before one of Phileas' knights. 

"Ah!" replied Phileas with glee. He moved his hand to touch the nearest bishop, then paused, his fingers hovering over the piece as he scanned the board again. After a few seconds, he sat back in his chair in the salon of the Aurora, touched a finger to his lips, and began to study the board more intently. 

Realizing that he might be there for some time, Rebecca rose to her feet and walked across the cabin to a chair upon which rested a leather courier's pouch. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands, tracing the royal seal with a fingertip. "I think this takes all the fun out of it." 

"What takes the fun out of what?" asked Phileas absently. 

He was still studying the chessboard when she turned. "Flying. I rather miss the old days of rail missions, racing on horseback through the countryside--" 

"Risking life and limb at every opportunity?" Phileas shot her an annoyed glance, then turned his chair slightly, as if to get a better perspective on the board. "You didn't have to volunteer for messenger duty." 

"I didn't 'volunteer.'" Seating herself at the other side of the board again, courier pouch in her hands, Rebecca sighed. "And you needn't have agreed to take the Aurora to Toulon on my behalf." 

"So, now it's my fault?" He reached forward again, the hint of a smile hovering over his lips, his fingers nearly touching a pawn well into his opponent's territory . . . but he stopped before grasping it and sank back into his chair. "The next time you've a need to be somewhere impossibly dangerous immediately, I'll be certain to say no." 

"That's not what I meant." She turned the pouch over in her hands again, wondering what was inside - probably nothing more incendiary than a laundry list of daily tasks and a handful of francs to cover the ruffled nerves of the British agent in Toulon. "There's no challenge to this." 

Passepartout entered with a rolling tray - there was a decanter of brandy, two glasses, and a small plate of cheese and grapes on the upper level. 

"You agree with me, don't you, Passepartout?" 

The valet stopped in mid-movement, his hand on the neck of the decanter. "I-" 

"That's not fair, Rebecca," said Phileas sharply. "After all, Passepartout has no idea what we're talking about." 

Rebecca caught the smile Passepartout tried too quickly to hide, and smiled herself, watching as he poured the brandy into a snifter and handed it to Phileas. "I would be thinking that Miss Rebecca is not happy at not being shooted at." 

"You would be correct, in a manner of speaking," agreed Rebecca, motioning with her hand to indicate that she wanted less brandy than he was prepared to give her. She was on duty, after all. 

She swirled the nearly transparent liquid inside the glass as she lifted it; the brandy adhered briefly to the sides before slipping back to the bowl again. "There's no challenge in flying to Toulon. Certainly, the other side could send someone to intercept the pouch, but with Chatsworth monitoring all of the telegraphs now, they'd never be able to get a message out to warn them when I was arriving and what I was carrying." 

"Pigeon," said Passepartout. 

Phileas stopped the glass halfway to his lips. He peered over it at his valet. "Pardon?" 

"Messenger pigeons," explained Passepartout. "Little birdies with the massages tied to their legges." He flapped his arms and made a decent attempt at cooing. 

"Thank you, Passepartout, I believe we get the idea." Phileas shook his head, then returned his attention to the chessboard. 

Rebecca was hard-pressed to keep from laughing and instantly felt cheered by the suggestion. "I suppose they _are_ faster than the Aurora, homing pigeons?" 

"They could be," Passepartout admitted, stopping the decanter. He picked up the plate of cheese and offered it to her. "If we are not to be traveling the fastest we could go, and we are not, there are pigeons that are fasterer than us." 

Taking a piece of cheese, Rebecca leaned against the chair back. "I suppose one could shoot pigeons--" 

"Some are using hawks and falcons," Passepartout informed her. "The little pigeons do not see them and they come swooped--" he lifted one hand high above his head and then dropped it down upon his lower wrist to demonstrate "and catch the messenger birdies." He turned his left palm over and let it hang limply to indicate the demise of the bird in question. "Of course, that is not so good for the little birdies." 

"Carrier pigeons . . . that would be most helpful," said Rebecca thoughtfully. "I think we should keep a few homing pigeons on the Aurora. And perhaps a hawk. What do you say, Phileas?" 

"I say that until you can positively distinguish between a 'good' pigeon and a 'bad' pigeon, a hawk is completely out of the question." He leaned over the board again, never looking up. "Monsieur Reuters has been experimenting with the telegraph, but until he abandons his messenger pigeons in favor of a machine, I'd prefer not to anger him by intercepting his business. He's given me a few excellent stock tips in the recent past and he's not a man one wants as an enemy." 

"Oh," answered Rebecca in disgust, as if dismissing his complaint. She had little time for his business interests. 

Phileas looked up from the board long enough to give her a firm and piercing gaze. "No hawks." 

She was tempted to stick her tongue out at him, but turned her attention instead to Passepartout, who was nibbling on pieces from the cheese plate. "Do you know anything about pigeons, Passepartout?" 

"I was once to training the pigeons for racing," he admitted. "There is not too much difference." 

Phileas looked up at the word 'racing.' "Are there, by any means, _wagers_ placed on racing pigeons?" 

"Oh, of course," answered Passepartout, with a slight shrug. "From London, to Antwerp, to Paris." He looked over at Rebecca. "They are very busy little birdies." 

"I would imagine they are." Rebecca bit her lower lip, her mind whirling with the possibilities. She glanced over at Phileas, who was still pondering the game they'd begun two hours before - best to put him out of his misery, soon. "I'd like to pick up some pigeons in Paris. It would make it far easier to communicate with Jules, in any case." 

"What's wrong with the post?" asked Phileas. "Or in dire straits, there's always the telegraph." 

Rebecca was more than happy Phileas was too preoccupied with his predicament to see the look of commiseration she shared with Passepartout. They were both well aware that Phileas had no real concept of money - he won and lost fortunes with ease and aplomb. 

She cleared her throat. "Speaking of Jules, I was hoping we'd be able to stop and visit with him for a bit. I've been concerned about him lately." 

"I assumed we'd stop in Paris." Then Phileas looked up, her words sinking in. "Concerned, about?" 

"I don't think he's eating well." 

"He certainly has a healthy appetite when he's here," noted Phileas, his attention returning to the chess pieces under his command. "Wouldn't you say so, Passepartout?" 

"Oh, yes, master. If master Jules will be staying to be eating, I am certain to be making more than enough foods." 

"That's not what I mean," said Rebecca crossly. Tossing the courier's pouch to the floor - the sound of it catching Phileas' attention for at least a minute, she could almost feel him following her with his eyes - she walked across the room and stood in front of a framed map of the world. Paris didn't seem so far from London, when one looked at the world as a whole. But Shillingworth Magna was centuries away from a small, writer's garret in a Paris rooming house. 

"He's a student, Phileas. You've seen his clothes; in fact, you've seen his rooms." 

"Room, actually," Phileas corrected. 

Rebecca turned. "That's what I mean. We should be able to _do_ something for him." 

Phileas looked up with cold eyes. Leaning back in his chair, he asked flatly. "And what could you _do_, that wouldn't insult his pride? I very much doubt he'd accept common charity, especially from us. Confine your philanthropic instincts to Shillingworth Magna and you won't risk losing Verne as a friend." 

He was right, but that didn't mean she had to like it. Rebecca walked back to the chair on the other side of the chessboard and dropped into it, folding her arms. "That's a very unbecoming trait, Phileas - you needn't be nasty just because you're losing." 

"As a matter of fact," he grinned at her and reached across the chessboard to move his queen. "I've won. Check." 

Rebecca glanced down at the board, took his queen with her bishop, then tossed the piece into his hands. "You've lost. Mate." 

"Mate?" Phileas scanned the board again as she watched, finally spotted the trap into which he'd been led, and snorted with disgust. He held out his empty brandy snifter and Passepartout filled it automatically. "I must remember never to play chess with you when you're bored." 

There were a dozen things she could have said . . . and every one of them would have led to an argument. Instead, Rebecca covered her pretended yawn with her hand and then rose to her feet. "I think I'll retire." 

Phileas pushed back his chair and stood as well - which caused her to smile inwardly. He was ever the gentleman, but never more so when he knew he'd angered her and she didn't fight back. Their shared childhood had included a legacy he well remembered, not showing her anger was often a portent for some insidious method she'd devise to get even. 

Nodding, she wished him, "Good-night," then watched as he seated himself cautiously. Let him stew - even though she had no intention of paying him back in kind, this time. 

At least, not at the moment. 

A thought struck her and instead of heading for the staircase, she touched Passepartout on the shoulder. "A moment of your time, Passepartout. If we're going to be picking up Jules, I wanted to make certain we've accommodations ready for him." 

"Of course, Miss Rebecca." 

She saw Phileas glance over as they left, his curiosity aroused - she _never_ bothered with any of the domestic arrangements aboard the Aurora, knowing the Passepartout had a much better grasp of those things - but he returned his attention and his scowl to the chessboard. 

The moment the kitchen door closed behind them, Rebecca asked, "Do you remember the blue blanket? The one we sent home with Jules that time?" 

"Yes, when he went accidentally swimming." Passepartout grinned. "He was not going to be drying for some time, I think." 

Her smile widened at the memory. "Thankfully, the lake wasn't all that deep. Our Monsieur Verne is obviously not a water baby." Then she cleared her throat. "Has he -um- returned the blanket yet?" 

"No, I am not thinking so." Passepartout looked around the kitchen, as if he were mentally cataloguing everything stored on the Aurora. Then he shook his head. "No. It is not being here." 

"Good - uh, what I mean is, if Jules should try to return the blanket, you're not to take it. It isn't ours." 

Passepartout stared at her. "Of course it is yours, Miss Rebecca. You just saying to me that is so." 

She took a breath. "No," she said firmly. "You're to tell him that he's mistaken. It isn't ours." She lowered her lids and nodded. "He's to keep it, is that understood?" 

After a brief moment, Passepartout brightened and nodded. "Of course. Never have I been seeing that stranger blanket in all my life. It must be belonging to master Jules." 

"Perfect." Rebecca touched him on the shoulder again. "Thank you, Passepartout." She turned to leave. 

"Oh, Miss Rebecca?" As she looked back at him, he hesitated, then gestured toward the cabinets in the kitchen. "I would be thinking that after we have been eaten, there is always foods left overs and others that will be spoiling if they are not being eaten. But with just you and master here, and me, there is not enough peoples to be eating the foods. It is not being right to waste and if master Jules would be taking it with him, perhaps giving it to some of his friends . . . ?" 

"How very clever, Passepartout," she said softly. "And how very kind." 

He blushed and ducked his head slightly. "It is just that I am hearing what you say. I am knowing what it is like to be hungry. As for what master says--?" He shrugged his shoulders, as if to excuse the comments Phileas made earlier. "Master Phileas, he is not bad - he is not understanding about such things because he is not knowing." 

"Oh, he knows," answered Rebecca, her tone still soft. "He knows very well what it is to be famished." 

She shook her head, thinking of the times Phileas might come in from a mission, his eyes ravenous, and tuck into whatever food was available. But that was only secondary - it was approval from his father for which he truly hungered. And which he never received. 

But she wasn't about to say _that_ to Passepartout. Not now. 

"He won't be knowing about the foods left overs," promised Passepartout. "And if he should be asking," another shrug, "I tell him it is better foods is eaten than thrown over the side after it is being spoiled." 

"Good. Thank you, Passepartout." 

"Thank you, Miss Rebecca. You are a very kind lady. And you are being a good friend to master Jules." 

Her hand on the doorknob, Rebecca sighed softly and looked down. "I would hate to lose him. I have a feeling Jules will need every friend he has." 

"It is lucky that he is having such good friends as you and master Phileas, then." 

"I hope so." She met his eyes again and smiled warmly. "Good-night, Passepartout." 

"Good dreams, Miss Rebecca." 

As she left the room and headed upstairs, Rebecca wondered how good of a friend she, and even Phileas, could be to Jules Verne. After all, saving his life from the League of Darkness was one thing - a bit of adventure, not so easily done, but accomplished in the end. 

However, saving Jules from a life of near poverty in Paris and from his own pride long enough to allow him to fulfill the promise inherent in him . . . that was another matter entirely. 

**** 

End of Chapter Two 

**** 


	3. Chapter 3

Charity in the Age of Modern Marvels (3/15) **** 

**Chapter 3 - _In which Jules hauls water more than once_**

His first thought was that he was cold. 

His second was that he had definitely had too much to drink last night, if he'd passed out on the floor. 

Jules yawned and began to stretch, the rag of a blanket thrown around him being pushed to its limits as he moved. Still half asleep, he realized that it was caught on something and turned his head to see what it was, rather than tear the blanket. 

A child was sleeping on the floor beside him. She'd been curled up against the small of his back and the blanket was clutched tightly between her fists. There was no movement from her and he watched carefully, horror-stricken at the thought she might be dead. The barely perceptible rise and fall of the old linen shirt he'd given her to wear the night before brought him some relief, but not much. 

Aimee. 

The hangover hit him right between the eyes just as the sun rose high enough to slip over the windowsill. Closing his eyelids instantly and stifling a groan of annoyance and pain, Jules missed the folded jacket he'd used as a pillow and instead struck his head on the hard wood of the floor. 

He knew instantly that this was going to be a difficult morning. Every muscle in his body ached from the night on the floor; he hadn't felt this sore since the working over he'd received when he'd been imprisoned inside the mechanical mole. Blindly he reached out toward the steps, where he remembered having left the bottle of wine. A half turn and his fingers touched the smooth side of the glass. 

Fumbling with it, Jules opened his eyes just enough to assure himself that he wasn't going to smack his head with the bottle - the side was cool against his forehead. He raised himself up by tucking his left elbow underneath and tilted the bottle to find what little liquid remained. 

More than a few mouthfuls. It dribbled down his chin and he lowered the bottle quickly before he began to choke. Then he let his head fall back to the floor, held the cool side of the bottle against his forehead, and hoped the wine would be enough to alleviate the ache behind his eyes. 

He drowsed only for a moment or two. When Jules opened his eyes again, there wasn't any real pain, just an inconsistent throbbing and then only when he moved too quickly. _That_, he could deal with. Despite the wine, his mouth was still dry and he licked his lips as he forced himself into a sitting position. 

It couldn't have been much past dawn, an hour at most. It had grown cooler during the night. That fact, and the sounds beginning to rise from the street below as Paris wakened around him, gave him impetus to stumble to his feet, close the window, and then fasten both of the shutters. 

Realizing that he'd slept in his clothes, Jules groaned aloud at his own stupidity - he was a mess. He paused a moment to sit at the table and remove his shoes, then laid them to one side. Glancing down at Aimee, he wondered exactly what he was going to do. 

She seemed even smaller when she slept. The leg she'd curled around the blanket was thin, not to the bone, but close enough so that it looked like it might snap if she fell. He could not quite tell the color of her hair; the dirt and tangle might be a light brown or summer blonde if washed. She made no sound in her sleep, but shuddered suddenly - she was cold. 

Jules knelt down and lifted her, blanket and all. The smell of the old man seemed to have clung more to her abandoned clothing than to her; he had no problem holding her in his arms this morning. If fact, he didn't remember her being quite this light in his arms when he'd carried her up the steps. 

Then again, he'd been drunk last night. The exact details of just about everything were going to prove to be elusive for a while. 

Tucking the blue blanket around her as he slipped her into the bed, he paused, thinking she might wake. Aimee slept on, oblivious to everything. He reached down to push back a lock of hair from her face and she winced in her sleep. Gently, he lifted the hair and found the area around her left ear darkened and bruised, as if from a blow. The left side of her mouth, too, was darkened. There was dried blood at the corner. 

"What am I supposed to do with you?" he whispered. 

There was no answer, but he really didn't expect one. 

Stretching again, and trying to remain as quiet as he could, Jules picked up his jacket and the bottle from the floor. The jacket was thrown onto the back of a chair, while the bottle was set on the table. He took care of his immediate needs, then took off his shirt and socks and used the remaining water in the pitcher on the wash stand to do the best he could. 

All the while, Jules thought about the coins that remained in his cash sock - they were supposed to last him until his next pittance of an allowance arrived from his father. He'd originally planned on augmenting the money by writing a few more plays, but after his last three local theatrical disasters, the playhouse managers would only pay him to stay away from their doors. Theon had mentioned that he had some money. So if he spent what little he had, perhaps he could borrow a few sous from his friend. And he could sell some of his law books . . . . 

The possibility of being able to borrow and sell to make money gave him courage. Jules took a battered tin cup down from the shelf, removed the sock, and then weighed it in his hand. He took out first five coins, then eight, then - after a glance at Aimee, asleep under the blue blanket - dumped the contents of the sock into his hand. 

If he was going to do this thing, he was going to do it _well_. 

Grabbing her discarded smock from the floor, he headed for the door, then paused again. He wasn't certain if he should leave. What if she awakened and there was no one here? What if she couldn't remember what had happened last night or, more importantly to him, what _hadn't_ happened last night? Mme Ludek would already be out at the markets and he was high enough from the street so that his neighbors would hear little or nothing, even through the paper-thin walls. It worried him, though, to think that Aimee might be frightened. Then he remembered what she had said last night, about promising not to cry. 

He would have to return before she awakened, it was that simple. Jules locked the door behind him - although a stiff breeze could have blown open the door to his room if it had that intent - and hurried through the outer door and into the street. 

His trip to the ragshop proved successful, if expensive - there were two clean children's smocks of the proper size and a pair of brown leather slippers that he hoped would fit her. The owner gave him barely a sou for the old smock he handed over, then agreed to trade for a pair of red girl's leggings that appeared to be the proper size. The morning chill reminded him to purchase a small, knit shawl, which was frayed at the edges, but perfectly serviceable. 

Breakfast also proved costly, the addition of two hard-boiled eggs more than he would have spent on three meals for himself. He splurged on a scoop of butter, fresh bread, more cheese, a bottle of milk, and a pastry as an afterthought. The door to the perfumery was open when he passed and he stepped inside with some caution - it wasn't a place he'd ever had the interest or will to visit on his own. The girl sweeping the sill of the shop nearly sent him out with the trash, but when he held up a coin and asked for good soap, he found his treatment at her hands improved considerably. 

Jules was whistling as he passed through the outer door and up the stairs to his room. The packages he carried in his arms made fitting the key into the lock an exercise in futility. Eventually, he simply gave up and pushed on the door with his shoulder, only slightly chagrined when it opened with the slightest pressure and no benefit of key. 

Aimee was sitting upright in bed - he wasn't entirely sure he hadn't just awakened her, she was watching him with such an owlish stare. 

"Good morning, Aimee." Placing his packages on the counter by the door, he walked toward her. "Do you remember who I am?" 

"Jules," she answered softly. Then she smiled. 

The smile was not so wide, nor so certain, but it brought sunshine into the room even without opening the shutters. He sat down on the bed beside her. "Did you sleep well?" 

She hesitated, then nodded that she had. 

"But," said Jules carefully, "you didn't sleep in the bed, did you?" 

Again, she hesitated, glancing down at the floor, then realizing where she was - in the bed. She nodded again, her eyes watching his every move. 

"Next time, you should sleep in the bed. The floor's too hard and too cold for little girls." 

"Yes, Jules," she said softly. 

It suddenly occurred to him that she was waiting for him to strike her. Jules froze, realizing that any sudden movement might send her scampering for cover or, which he considered worse, might bring back the blank-featured, obedient doll he'd met the night before. 

"Can I tell you a secret?" He leaned close and whispered softly in her ear, "I brought back an egg for breakfast. One for each of us." 

As he drew away, he saw her smile return; Aimee clasped her hands together in joy. "Really?" 

"Come and see." 

Taking her hand, Jules led her to the counter, where she helped him to open the food packages. The boiled egg was quickly eclipsed by the presence of the pastry, which he suspected might have disappeared entirely into her mouth if she still wasn't so frightened. 

Handing her two plates, he said, "Clear off a space on the table and we'll eat." 

Nodding - she was far quieter than he ever remembered his sisters being - Aimee hopped down the step and over to the table. Jules put his attention toward the task of finding two fairly clean cuts and utensils. Balancing a mismatched teacup and a glass on top, he turned and headed down to the table. 

Aimee was sitting on the chair by the table, but hadn't moved to clear him a space. He opened his mouth to admonish her - gently - but then stopped when he realized what she was doing. 

She was looking at his drawings. One by one, she passed through the pages, stopping to run a finger along the lines of one of the terrible machines he'd envisioned, or to touch the spire of an incredible building. Something inside him warmed watching her, seeing the wonder in her eyes. 

He moved enough so that his shadow fell across her and she started. Aimee glanced up at him fearfully, then quickly patted the papers into something of a pile and shifted them to aside. 

"It's all right," said Jules, taking the plates from her and setting them down on the table. "You may look if you want. Let's open the shutters - we need light." 

Breakfast began silently enough - he placed an egg on her plate, followed by a slice of bread with butter, and a few bits of cheese. Aimee dove immediately into the bread, leaving no crumbs as she chewed and swallowed quickly, whether from real hunger or from habit he couldn't tell. The cheese disappeared before Jules had managed to spread any butter on his own bread. 

The egg, however, proved to be something of a problem. Aimee picked it up and hefted it in her hand, as if surprised at the weight of it. Jules abandoned his bread and picked up his own egg. He tapped it against the plate and the shell cracked. Showing Aimee the open part of the shell, he picked away at the edges. 

She followed his lead, at one point ending up with her thumb through the egg, but it all turned out well. He was pleased to find the milk was something of a success, for she finished the first glass before he had a chance to even touch his own. 

And while Aimee ate, he noticed that she kept glancing back at his drawings. 

"You may look at them," he told her again, and this time she reached over and picked up one of the pictures. It was a sketch of one of his flying machines. "Now that," he informed her solemnly, "is a heliopter. It flies horizontally and vertically." 

When Aimee stared at him, he moved his hand to demonstrate. "This way _and_ that way." 

"But . . . it flies?" 

"Um." Picking up a piece of bread, Jules gestured toward the rotors at the front and top of the machine. "That's what makes it fly." 

"Like a bird?" 

"Yes." 

"I'd like to fly like a bird," said Aimee gravely. She abandoned the drawing and picked up another, absently christening it with another piece of cheese that Jules had cut and slipped onto her plate. "What is this?" 

"That's a building - a residence, where people live. As tall as . . . as Notre Dame. Taller!" When she stared at him in disbelief, Jules laughed and added, "The walls will be glass and shine when the suns hit them. Inside it will always be light." 

"But only in the day?" asked Aimee. "Because at night it'll be dark outside." 

"There'll be lights _inside_ at night," countered Jules. 

Taking another bite of cheese, Aimee placed the paper back in the table and pointed to the tiny figures sketched at the bottom. "And people will live there?" 

"Yes. Well, I hope so," answered Jules. 

"Will they be happy people?" 

"I think so." He picked up the drawing - which had acquired a ring at the bottom from her milk glass - and set it to one side. 

"Can I live there?" 

"If you like," he answered quickly. He gestured upward, at the beams of his room. "You would live at the very top. And when the stars came out at night they would feel so close that you would want to reach out and touch them." 

Aimee followed the movement of his hand, her eyes directed upward as if she could see the night sky of which he spoke. "Oh! That would be nice." Then she returned her gaze to her empty plate. "But I could live at the bottom." She looked up at him again. "Will you draw me a place at the bottom, where I could live and be happy?" 

When he didn't answer immediately, she added, "You could live there, too, Jules." 

He fought to keep his smile in place. Leaning toward her, he asked quietly, "Aimee, do you have a mama?" 

Aimee shook her head, her eyes still locked on his. 

"What about a papa?" 

Again, she shook her head. "Only Dondre," she answered, her voice low. "And before him--" Closing her eyes tightly, she pursed her lips . . . but then relaxed after a moment and looked up at him sadly. "I don't remember him. I was very small. He wore a black coat and it smelled. He sold me to Dondre." Then, she smiled and reached across to touch his hand. "And now Dondre has sold me to you." 

Jules knew enough not to try to explain that again. He pushed back his chair from the table and Aimee did the same, mirroring his movements. "Why don't put the dishes over there," he gestured toward the counter. "I'll get the water for your bath." 

Aimee's eyes widened and she backed up a step. "A bath?" 

Instantly, Jules knew he was in trouble. He ran to the packages on the counter and pulled out the small wrapped bundle from the perfumery, which he returned to Aimee. "I bought this for you. It's real soap. Smell it." 

She was reluctant, but she sniffed at it with a delicacy that was almost comic. A smile lit her face and Aimee looked at him in wonder. "That's pretty! Like flowers." 

"Wouldn't you like to smell like that?" he asked hopefully. 

Her eyes still watching him warily, Aimee nodded. 

"That's how you'll smell after your bath." She seemed to be mulling over the idea. With a sigh, Jules gestured toward the dishes. "Just clear up the table - I'll be back in a minute with the water." 

The washtub was standing on its side beside the counter and was - Jules noted with some dismay - cobwebbed into place. When he visited the Aurora, Passepartout often disappeared with his dirty clothing and returned them clean, pressed, and patched. It had been at least a month since he had done his own laundry. 

He headed for the door, but paused to check Aimee. She had gathered the plates into a pile on the table, but was now standing at the window with the soap package slightly unwrapped, sniffing at it. Chuckling to himself, Jules headed down the steps from his room to the wash pump. 

The water was cold, but clean. Jules splashed some of it on his face and shivered, wondering how he was going to get Aimee scrubbed up - he'd be hard-pressed to get into such a cold tub himself! He'd grown used to bathing on the Aurora, where heaters kept the bathing water warm for whenever it was needed. His rented room had no facility to heat water. What he wouldn't give for a gas burner, like one of the ones in Passepartout's workshop, for a hot cup of tea or coffee on cold nights . . . . 

As he pumped water to fill the tub, Jules realized that he'd never considered what the Aurora might mean to Aimee. The Foggs could afford to keep a child, or at least find a place for her with a good family. But would they do that? Aimee was a child from the streets, after all, not their blood relation, nor any relation to him. Even if she were, could he dare to impose upon their kindness to him that much? 

The water in the tub was even higher than he'd intended. Jules could barely gets his hands into the cutouts on either side of the wooden frame and as he lifted it and stepped away, the water splashed on his shirtfront, down his trousers, and over his shoes. He eyed the steps with dismay, sighed, and then began the struggle up to his room, making a mental note to sit down with Passepartout to concoct a system that would pipe water upstairs. If Mme Ludek complained, he'd convince her it was an improvement. 

Finally reaching the top - even damper than when he'd begun - Jules pushed open the door with his back and swung the tub into the room. "I have the water, Aimee--" 

The child was kneeling on the floor beside his tin cleaning bucket, vomiting into it. 

The wave that flew up from the wash bucket as Jules all but dropped it onto the floor may have drenched him, but it didn't slow him in the least. He dropped to his knees beside the child and placed an arm around her shoulders, holding her as the remains of her breakfast came back up. 

This was his fault - he hadn't been thinking. She probably been surviving on little more than stale bread, water, and scraps of cheese and meat or porridge, if she'd been lucky enough to get that. He'd given her milk, fresh butter, and egg . . . and now her body was paying the price for his mistake. 

Aimee coughed a few more times, then fell back against him. He touched her face carefully, remembering the bruise near her left ear, and she looked up at him, lids half-closed over her eyes. "I'm sorry, Jules," she whimpered. "I'm sorry." 

"No, it's my fault. It's all my fault." He held the child as tightly as he dared and fought the tears that gathered in his eyes. Her body was shaking - he could feel the fragility of it. After a moment or two, she stilled, her ragged breaths settling to something akin to normal. 

"Do you feel better now?" Jules asked, touching his lips to her forehead gently. 

"My stomach hurt. And then I felt sick." She was watching him again, with those too-wide eyes. "I'm sorry, Jules. I'll be good. Don't sell me back to Dondre, please?" 

He turned her in his arms and hugged her. "You're never going back to Dondre. Never. I won't let that happen." 

Some of the tension seemed to leave her as he spoke. He felt her lips touch his cheek. And then Aimee pulled back from him and announced, "You're wet! Is it raining?" 

Releasing her so that she could scamper away from him, Jules brushed the back of his hand across his eyes to wipe away the tears before she could see them. "No. That--" he pointed blindly to where he knew the tub would be sitting, "attacked me." 

Aimee smiled - he thought for a moment that she might laugh, but she sobered quickly again. Climbing to his feet, he walked over to her and knelt down in front of her. "Are you still sick? Do you feel better now?" 

"My stomach doesn't hurt anymore." 

"Good." Jules took her hand in his, then caught hold of the other and rubbed her palms between his fingers. "God, you're cold." He glanced at the tub guiltily. "And I'm afraid that water's not going to help. But now we definitely have to get you bathed." 

Placing one hand under her knees and the other at her back, he lifted her . . . and immediately felt her stiffen in his arms. "Don't worry," he whispered. "I'm going to tuck you into that nice warm bed over there until I have your bath ready." Pausing at the side of the bed, he looked down at her, meeting her eyes, "Is that all right?" 

When she nodded, he lowered her into the bed and then tucked the blue blanket around her. "Wait here." 

"Can I have . . . the soap?" 

Jules stopped in his tracks and turned back to face her. The thought that she wanted something he'd bought for her delighted him. "It does smell, pretty, doesn't it?" he asked, retrieving the soap from the windowsill, where she'd left it. 

"It's very pretty," agreed Aimee, when he returned it to her. She lifted it to her nose, sniffed at it with closed eyes, then held it against her cheek. "It smells like a mama." 

Jules suddenly realized that he hadn't thought to buy her a doll or another toy. If it came to it, he could make a doll - he'd done as much for his sisters. But first - he sniffed the air - there was the matter of cleaning up the room, as well as himself. 

His last clean shirt was a mess, drenched with water and spotted with Aimee's vomit. Jules ran his fingers down the buttons, unfastening them, then slipped down his suspenders and removed his shirt. His shoes were next, as well as his socks, both being placed on the windowsill to dry in the sun. Dropping the remains of the water from the washbasin into the cleaning bucket, he refilled the basin pitcher and the basin from the tub. He rinsed the shirt as best he could and hung that over the shutter - even with the morning chill, the sun would be high enough to dry it in a few hours. The shirt from the night before was retrieved from his laundry pile and tossed over a chair to air. 

Aimee watched the proceedings from the bed with interest, sitting up when he headed toward the door with the waste-filled cleaning bucket, but resting again when he promised to return immediately. 

Without his shoes and his shirt, Jules found working the pump a lot more uncomfortable. Gooseflesh raised along his arms. He should have thrown on his jacket at the very least. Rinsing the bucket didn't take more than a second and then that was filled with clean water as well - he'd need something to use to rinse off the little girl after she'd been soaped and scrubbed. 

The water felt like twice its weight; Jules used two hands to haul the bucket up the stairs. Once there, he paused at the doorframe and leaned his head against it. He was exhausted and the sun was still low in the sky. 

Only now could he understand the weariness he would see in his mother's face in the evenings, as she tucked them into bed, heard their prayers, and kissed them goodnight. How could she have managed all of this effort on a daily basis when he and his brother were small and his father's law practice was still in his infancy, with no money to spare for hired help? 

When he entered the room, he found Aimee standing in the middle of the washtub, just inside the door. She had his shirt hiked up to keep it from getting wet and was kicking, splashing water out of the tub. 

"Oh, now, don't do that. You're getting water all of the floor," groaned Jules. He placed the full bucket just inside the door, then lifted a dishtowel from the counter. It didn't soak up much of the puddle Aimee had created and, to be honest, a good deal of that had resulted from the splash when he'd dropped the tub to the floor earlier. 

Aimee had stopped at his first words and now stood still in the water, those watchful eyes studying him again. 

"It's all right," he relented, touching her hair. "No harm done. I was worried you wouldn't get used to the water. I'm sorry it's so cold." 

Aimee looked down at the tub water. "It _is_ cold. And it tickles my toes." 

"You should have a proper bath, a _hot_ bath," he told her scanning the room for the soap. It had moved from the bed to the table now. He picked it up and grabbed a clean towel from the bureau drawer. "With any luck, I'll find you a home where you can get one." 

"I want to live at the bottom of the glass house," she informed him. "The one you drew, where the happy people live. And you can live there with me." 

Towel draped over his arm, soap in one hand and a wash cloth in the other, Jules hesitated. Could the Foggs find a place for Aimee to live, where she could be happy? Anything they would find would probably be in England . . . . 

"Do you have any English?" he asked, approaching the tub. 

She nodded quickly, smiling, as if pleased to be able to answer. "I know many words - Dondre made me learn them. Sometimes the gentlemen are English and they want me to say things. And sometimes they say things and I learn them. Do you want me to say my English words?" 

"I think we'd better forget those words," answered Jules, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. He doubted even the Foggs would be willing to find someplace safe for Aimee in England after they learned of her dubious vocabulary. 

"Are you going to have a bath with me?" asked Aimee. 

Jules smiled at her, pleased to hear her speaking. He laughed and pointed to the shirt and shoes on the windowsill. "I think I've had my bath already today." 

She smiled - still, she didn't laugh - and took the soap from his hand, smelling it as he knelt by the tub. "This is pretty." 

"It's very pretty," Jules agreed. "Now take off the shirt - you might have to wear that to sleep tonight and it would be nice to keep _something_ dry." 

Handing him the soap, Aimee followed the same procedure as before - the shirt came over her head without a pause. She held it out to him, looking down to make certain that it didn't drag in the water. There was nothing self-conscious in her manner; Aimee showed no hesitation in removing her clothes, no embarrassment at being naked before him. He would have liked to think that it was because she trusted him. 

But Jules knew better. When she held out her hands, he gave her the soap, handed her the washcloth, and draped the shirt over his shoulder, all without thinking. 

Thinking was impossible when faced with the little body before him, a map of scars, scrapes and bruises. What he had briefly seen the night before had nearly brought him to tears. What he saw now, in the light of day, sparked a murderous rage in his heart - he would cheerfully have gone into the depths of Parisian depravity, dragged Dondre out into the sunlight, and sent his soul to everlasting hell. 

But it wasn't Dondre alone who had done this. There were others responsible for the bruises in the shapes of finger marks on her thighs, the striped marks across her buttocks and back, the misalignment of a shoulder, which might have been broken at some time and healed unaided . . . . 

Aimee dropped down into the tub with a splash, calling out in surprise as she sat almost up to her armpits in the cold water. The splash that slapped his face was enough to awaken Jules from his horrified stupor. He moved to the other side of the tub, seeing her rub the soap on her chest, then wipe it away with the washcloth. 

"Here," said Jules, clearing his throat to keep his voice from breaking. "Let me." 

He wrung the washcloth over the tub, then rubbed the soap against it to get a good lather. The soap he dropped back into the tub with a splash, which caused her to cry out in joy and to smile. While she played with the soap, he started on her back. It was sometimes hard to tell what was a scar and what was dirt, and even harder to know when he might hurt her. Her arms and hands were easy enough, despite the scars that circled her wrists, but there were marks on her chest near her nipples - dear God, could those have been made by human teeth? Her neck he washed carefully, especially as he moved up the left side of her face. He ran the cloth down her legs and between her toes. 

But Jules could not bring himself to do anything more with the cloth. He couldn't touch her further for fear of what he might find. 

Aimee allowed the dispassionate cleaning without complaint, humming quietly as she played with the soap, floating it in the tub like a boat or squishing her hands together over it so that it shot up and out between her fingers. He realized soon that the humming stopped when he was hurting her, so he let her lead him in that. 

"I like baths like this," said Aimee. 

Jules had left her with the washcloth momentarily, going to the counter to fetch a cup to wash her hair. "A warm bath would be better," he informed her. 

She nodded, after thinking a moment. "But like this," she said, splashing the water. "Alone. When I was little, the gentlemen liked to take baths with me. They touched me and sometimes they wanted me to touch them, but they didn't hurt me. Not like when I got bigger." She turned in the tub and smiled up at him. "Are you sure you don't want to take a bath with me, Jules?" 

He wanted to scream. Instead, he pasted what he knew must be a sickly smile on his face and said, "No," in the calmest voice he could manage. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he took the washcloth from her. "I have to wash your hair, now." 

Aimee made a face as if she weren't happy, but she didn't protest. Only her eyes and the downturn of her mouth continued to accuse him. 

"Here--" Jules rinsed the soap from the washcloth , then wrung it so that it was nearly dry. He folded it and handed it to her. "So the water and the soap doesn't get in your eyes." 

She took the cloth and held the ends over her eyes experimentally, then let it fall into her hands again. Aimee nodded and held the cloth over her eyes with the tips of her fingers. 

Using the cup, he poured the water over her head, until her hair was plastered to her skull. He was careful to give her moments to breathe between dowsings and after a few tries he saw her shoulders relax, as she grew comfortable with the process. The soap was a little tougher to deal with - he knew it would sting her eyes, so he tried to work up a lather before applying it to her hair. 

There were no lice or other vermin present, for which he was extremely grateful. The dirt was ingrained in her scalp and he had to rub hard with his fingers to dislodge it. The matted hair was nearly impossible to separate, but Jules tried his best. He rinsed the soap off thoroughly, using clean water from the bucket by the door. Wet, her hair was the light brown he suspected, surely lighter than his own. 

"Stand up, Aimee," he said, lifting the towel and wrapping it around her body as she rose from the water. Not only was she kept warm, but the cloth also protected him from seeing those marks again. He wondered if even the strength of his visions could drive that memory from his mind. Lifting her from the tub, he carried her to the bed and seated her on the blanket. She submitted to being rubbed dry with the towel, then reached for the shirt that he'd tossed over his shoulder and had forgotten. 

Jules caught her wrist within the curl of his fingers to stop her from grabbing the shirt, but his movement had been too quick. Her felt her body tense beneath the towel. "This is for sleeping," he said quietly. "But I've brought you something better." 

The smocks, leggings and shoes he'd bought were still wrapped on the counter. Retrieving them, he dropped the packages beside her on the bed. "These are yours." 

It took some moments for her to open the small bundles, but she reacted as if he had given her the Emperor's very crown. The first of the two smocks - the blue one - was slipped over her head immediately. The tights followed, just a little long, but enough to cover her legs and serve as an undergarment. The shoes were too small, but it didn't seem to matter. He was able to release the buckle enough to make them fit her feet, and she didn't have any trouble walking in them. If he was able to see the wear at the seams, the frayed edges of the toes, she seemed not to notice. 

Dressed, Aimee looked like any other child he might see on the street, one with a family, holding the hand of a parent, or a nurse, or a governess. No one would have known that she had spent her young life as anything other than loved and cared for . . . unless they lifted the smock to see the marks upon her body. He was certain those marks must go deeper, to her very soul. 

Jules turned away and placed the shirt from his shoulder on the other shutter to air it. He checked the condition of the items on the windowsill - the socks and shoes were almost dry, but the shirt was still too damp to wear. He took last night's shirt from the other shutter and slipped his arms through it, lifting his suspenders to hold it in place until it could be fastened. 

He couldn't look at her. While she played with the shawl and the other smock, he turned his back and began to prepare some bread and cheese for lunch. Having learned from his mistake earlier that morning, he cut the pieces smaller and gave her less food. There was still a half glass of milk left from the bottle and he poured that into the battered china cup. There was none remaining for him, but he didn't much care - the knot in his throat would have prevented him from swallowing. 

The touch of her fingers on his hand startled him. She had placed the red shawl over her head and looked up at him with the utmost gravity in her expression. 

"Have I been bad, Jules?" 

"No, Aimee. You've been a good girl. See, I have lunch for you." When she looked at the food and then quickly up at him, he smiled reassuringly. "I don't think the food will make you sick again. Eat more slowly this time." 

Aimee pulled herself up onto the chair at the table. "I don't think I like eggs anymore," she informed him, reaching for a piece of bread. 

Moving to stand behind her, Jules pulled the red shawl from her head and folded it, placing it on the windowsill. Her hair was curling as it dried and he found it soft when he touched it. She _was_ a good girl, but she wasn't his. He hadn't seriously considered asking Rebecca and Phileas to find a place for her not because she spoke no real English, but because England was so far away. His family, too, in Nantes - true, his father would never accept her, but it would be such a long way to travel and then to have to deal with his father's questions about his studies, giving up writing . . . . 

Whatever love he might offer Aimee would not keep her warm in the winter, would not feed her each day, would not clothe her. How could he comfort her wakeful nights when his own were filled with monstrous visions of things to come? Knowing now that there were people who would use his visions for their own, evil purposes, how could he expose her to such danger, put her in harm's way? And if he couldn't listen to her speak of the things that had been done to her, the torments she had suffered in her life, without being so disturbed by them he could not bring himself to touch her, to _look_ at her--? 

Jules knew he could not keep her. 

"After you've finished, would you like to go for a walk?" 

She turned her head slightly to look up at him. "A walk?" 

No doubt Dondre had taken her on many 'walks' to places where gentlemen awaited their arrival . . . . 

He tried not to think further of what the word might mean to her and fought to keep his smile in place. "There's a park near the Convent of the Sisters of Mercy. Sometimes people walk dogs there. It's very pretty." 

"I like dogs." Her suspicions allayed, Aimee turned her attention back to her food and chewed contentedly. "Can we play with them?" 

"If there are some nice ones, yes." He would bring her extra smock, and the shawl - the Sisters wouldn't mind having either of those, he was certain. The soap, too, could be dried; she might want that. His shirt with the torn sleeves . . . the Sisters would find something else in which to let her sleep. That, he would keep. 

As well as the memory of this moment. 

Her hair was so soft . . . . 

He could not keep her. 

**** 

End of Chapter 3 

**** 


	4. Chapter 4

Charity in the Age of Modern Marvels (4/15) **** 

**Chapter 4 - _In which Phileas and Rebecca further discuss pigeons_**

Bloody, foolish, stupid, imbecilic-- 

"Frustrated, cousin?" 

Rebecca froze a smile on her face as she closed the shop door and turned to face Phileas on the street, pretending to have just run into him - a spy had to keep up appearances, after all. "How nice to see you in Toulon. Are you here for business?" 

"No, just for the espionage." 

Remembering that her reticule carried a rather effective set of brass knuckles, she swung it in Phileas' direction as she turned to walk down the street, but he deflected the impact with a quick maneuver of his walking stick. 

"Careful," he warned, walking beside her and wearing his genteel morning smile. "You might hurt someone." 

"That was the intent. Nice defensive move, by the way." 

"Thank you." He nodded toward her, accepting the compliment. 

Rebecca cast a look at him from the corner of her eye - Phileas did have a particular spring in his step. He was wearing a smartly pressed, gray morning suit, with a white carnation decorating his lapel. Beside him, she felt perfectly dowdy in the dark magenta jacket and skirt she'd chosen in which to tour the town. 

Then again, he hadn't just emerged from beneath the pier after having spent an hour crawling underneath a ship's hull, either. 

At least, she didn't think so. "You were gone from the Aurora before breakfast this morning." 

"I had an appointment with a banker in town." He doffed his hat to a passing lady, then rolled his eyes. "Tedious business. Transfer of funds." 

"Well, don't let me keep you." She quickened her step and turned down a side street as if to elude him, but he neatly dashed in front of her, placed his palm against the side of a brick building to block her progress, and smiled pleasantly. 

"No need - it's all been taken care of. I decided to see if you were free for lunch." 

"Passepartout is--?" 

"Shopping, I believe. He said something about laying in stores for our Paris stopover." He smiled slyly. "I suspect that has something to do with your plans to keep Verne from starving." Phileas offered her his arm. "There's a lovely little bistro down the Rue whatever-it-is; I thought you might find it charming." 

"Perhaps I would." She accepted his arm with a modicum of grace. 

Toulon wasn't Paris, but the port city was lovely on a sunny autumn afternoon. There were flowers still in bloom in the window boxes along the fashionable streets and the salt-tinted air from the harbor just screamed adventure. 

"I thought you might enjoy a stroll," said Phileas amiably. "Business not go as planned?" 

Rebecca frowned instantly as he returned her concentration back to the buffoon she'd just left. "Good help is becoming even harder to find." 

"If you're counting on Chatsworth to do the hiring--" 

"He had no choice." She shot Phileas a resigned look. "Landless younger son of a peer. Too vile for the clergy, too stupid for law, too corrupt for business." 

"Then by all means, trust him with the defense of Queen and country," added Phileas darkly. He wrested his arm from hers, took a step away in disgust and then turned back toward her. "Now you've spoiled my appetite entirely." 

"I _do_ apologize." She took _his_ arm this time, pausing before a flower stall for a moment. "And we _do_ need you, Phileas." 

He moved to stand behind her, his voice soft, but steady. "You know my answer to that, so let's not have a row on the boulevard, shall we?" 

"Hmmmn." 

There was a nice spray of small violets and baby's breath. Plucking the wrapped flowers from the hands of shop girl at the stall, Rebecca whirled away, only barely keeping tabs on Phileas, who had taken some coins from his pocket to pay for them. Pigeons had gathered on the far side of the street and she turned her attention there, watching the brown, white and gray birds strut and coo as they pecked at a crust of bread in the gutter. 

"Pigeons," she noted, as Phileas rejoined her. 

"Have you added bird watching to your talents?" 

She gave him a sharp look, then turned her attention to the pigeons again. "You'd said something about Mr. Reuters using pigeons to deliver messages? I should think having two pigeons boarded on the upper deck wouldn't be too much of a strain on the Aurora. Passepartout says he knows something about them. Perhaps he could train them?" 

"If not, he could cook them. I haven't had squab for--" 

"Phileas!" It was only after he turned his head away, smiling, that she realized he was teasing. "You _are_ in a good mood today," she noted, suddenly suspicious. "You haven't by any chance won a wager?" 

"No. Standard stuff. Just sent a quick note off to an old friend." He turned his hand in the air, as if counting off the errands he'd accomplished. "Sold a few stocks, purchased a few stocks, ordered some limestone for the patio at Shillingworth Magna, purchased a brace of homing pigeons in Paris by wire--" 

"You did _what_?" Rebecca stopped in the center of the street, grabbed his arm, and turned him to face her. 

"I knew I wouldn't hear the end of it until you'd gotten a chance to test your theories on sending and receiving messages on the fly." When she stared at him blankly, he gestured toward the pigeons with the walking stick. "Don't tell me you haven't come up with anything yet - they're likely to believe you more than I will. And, I'll admit, the idea of being able to receive racing results and placing bets while flying over God knows where certainly appealed to me." 

It was his way, to pretend the gift was meaningless, not for her use but his own. The anxiety hovered behind his eyes, the devil-may-care façade able to hide that from the world. 

But not from her. She'd grown up with him. She'd watched him perfect that cavalier response. Rebecca knew if she responded in kind, he'd be ever so disappointed. 

She couldn't do that to him. 

"I think," she said softly, "this is one of the nicest presents you've ever given me." 

"Truly?" He beamed, then cleared his throat and looked away, regaining his composure. "One of the least expensive, at any rate. You should have told me you fancied pigeons ages ago - you could have saved me a small fortune in silks and geegaws." 

"I happen to like the occasional geegaw," she admitted. 

Rebecca didn't add - 'particularly when it comes from you,' but from his reaction, he seemed to hear it anyway. He offered her his arm and they finally crossed the street, to the obvious relief of an approaching cart driver. 

"What color are they?" she asked. 

Phileas turned a mild stare at her. "Pardon?" 

"The pigeons. Are they brown pigeons, gray pigeons, white pigeons, black pigeons--?" 

"_Are_ there black pigeons?" 

She shrugged. "I have no idea. Black pigeons would be crows, wouldn't they?" 

"Beastly birds." He gave a slight shudder, as if one of the mentioned crows had lit on the shoulder of his morning coat. "As for your pigeons - they'd be average, ordinary, pigeon-colored pigeons, one would suspect." 

"They won't be ordinary after Passepartout trained them." 

"Ah, there we _must_ agree." He shot her another smile. "Remarkable fellow, Passepartout, with or without pigeons. Do you think I pay him enough?" 

"No." 

Phileas sniffed, his nose rising in the air as if affronted. "Hmmn." 

Raising the flowers to her lips to hide a smile, Rebecca caught sight of two pigeons sitting together on a fence. "You mentioned that you'd purchased a 'brace' - two males or two females?" 

"I have no idea. Do you think it matters?" 

"They might be more comfortable on the upper deck if they were a male _and_ a female." 

"Perish the thought," announced Phileas. "With only Jules and his notebook playing chaperone to a pair of love-starved pigeons?" He chuckled under his breath. "Then again, it might mean fresh eggs for breakfast--" 

She tapped his arm with her reticule in response to the comment; perhaps a bit harder than she meant because he pulled away with a cry of pain. 

"Ow! Rebecca, what in blazes have you got there? A cannon?" 

"Brass knuckles." 

"Thank heavens. For a moment, I thought you were armed." 

"Did I say that I wasn't?" 

She arched an eyebrow as he glanced over at her and shook his head in mock dismay. It was only a pace or two before he gathered her arm again, resting her hand lightly on his own. 

"What would be wrong with a pair of pigeons, a male and a female?" she pressed. 

Phileas continued to stare straight ahead. "Well, think about it. It wouldn't be fair." 

"How could it _not_ be fair?" asked Rebecca. "They'd be two of a kind, eminently suited for one another. They could raise a family - you must admit it would be an inexpensive way to acquire more pigeons. They'd be perfectly happy . . . ." 

"In the same cage." 

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye - he was still looking straight ahead. The rhythmic tap of his cane on the stones as they walked was almost maddening. "They wouldn't spend all of their time in the cage. They're messenger pigeons. They'll be flying about, delivering messages." 

"Common messages?" 

"Yes." 

"Dangerous messages?" 

"Of course." 

He stopped, faced her, and took her hands in his. "And what happens," he asked, "when one of them doesn't come _back_ from delivering a message?" 

Her voice failed her for an instant - that earlier ruddiness had gone from his cheeks and his voice had that odd, distant quality it assumed when he turned off all the brightness in his soul. His eyes were quiet and dead. 

"That won't happen," she said weakly. 

Phileas was wearing that oh-so-sad and superior smile. Without answering, he took her arm and began to walk again, because words weren't really necessary. 

For it _had_ happened, hadn't it? 

Rebecca turned her attention to her surroundings, but the brightly colored flowers in their window boxes all seemed dull and funereal. If she looked closely, she could see the first hint of frost had done its damage. The blooms would probably last no longer than another night or so. There was still a chance to save them, if they were taken indoors. 

"A cage," she said softly, "is not _always_ a bad thing." 

"Except when you're born with wings." He cleared his throat. "In future, I should probably confine my purchases to geegaws." 

"That might be for the best." 

He stopped suddenly, turning toward her and the pigeons lifted into the air around them. They were engulfed in a wing-battering windstorm, as the disturbed birds fluttered desperately to get out of their way. Absently, she noticed other pedestrians scattering, arms and hands rising to shield themselves from the sudden onslaught. Only she and Phileas stood unmoving, untouched in the center of the maelstrom, staring at one another. 

The wings flapped, then fluttered, then fell still. Pigeons settled on window boxes, on the paving stones of the street, on the eaves of houses. A final few feathers drifted down around them in the sudden aftermath of silence. 

"Here we are," he announced. 

"Yes. Here we are." Rebecca glanced up at the wooden sign hanging from chains over the bistro, then met his eyes again. "There are times I wish I could hate you." 

"There are times I wish you did." A slight, taut smile lingered at the edges of his lips. With the utmost of grace and propriety, he offered his arm to her. "Shall we go inside?" 

Rebecca ducked her head graciously, took his arm, and accompanied him to lunch. 

**** 

End of Chapter Four 

**** 


	5. Chapter 5

**** 

**Chapter 5- _In which Jules has a religious experience_**

Through the latticed window, Jules could watch Aimee walking in the walled garden, the gray-robed Sister holding her hand. Most of the flowers were dead, unable to survive even the post-summer warm spell they'd enjoyed, but there were still a few, hardy blossoms close to the ground. She was standing on tiptoe, peering at a bird's nest in a shrub . . . . 

"How old is the child, Monsieur Verne?" 

He turned away from the window and faced the desk behind which Sister Simon was seated. She held a pen over the paper, the edge tilted so the ink would not drip before she was ready to record his words for eternity. 

Jules found himself focusing on the pen tip. He crushed his cap in his hands and shook his head. "I don't know. Perhaps seven, eight, nine?" 

"She is not . . . your own child?" 

"NO!" he declared, a little too quickly. He cleared his throat and looked up to see Sister Simon's patient smile. "No. She's not mine." 

"But she's a relative--?" 

"No." 

The nun lowered her head over the paper, the pen scratching audibly as she recorded his answers. The afternoon light shone through the windows, the lattices creating shadowy patterns on the floor. The ceiling of the room was high, with ancient, dark-brown, wooden beams supporting the stone arches. Save for the sconces, where tapers were established, and the occasional trappings of religious decoration - pictures of the Virgin Mother, a crucifix - the walls were bare . . . plain gray like the habits of the nuns. 

It was warm here, and there was a sweet scent to the air, a feeling of peace and contentment. Aimee needed peace, after the brutality of her young life. But Jules still found the lack of color disturbing. What was contentment without joy? 

"The mother?" 

He looked back to Sister Simon, her pen pausing again, awaiting his answer. 

He had none. Jules shook his head. "I don't know." 

"The background, family?" 

Again, he shook his head. 

"The father? The father's family? Where are they from? What is their occupation?" 

Too many questions, too few answers. The heavy stone felt as if it were closing in on him, the room a reminder of boarding school - dull gray walls and priests in black cassocks, with hard and quiet words. He had to be educated, of course. He had to be kept apart from his family, so that he might learn. 

A letter to a child - told his father was sick abed, but not to return home. To write, only. To send his best wishes and regards. His father grows well. He does not go home. 

A letter to a child - told his mother is abed with her first daughter, but not to return home. To write only. To send his best wishes and regards. He does not go home. 

Kept apart from his family so that he might learn. 

Learn . . . what? How to be alone? 

"Monsieur Verne? The father's family?" 

Jules started and shook his head again. "I don't know. I don't know where she came from. If I did, I'd find her family." 

Sister Simon lowered the pen to the blotting paper - a bad sign. She fixed him with a steady gaze, her face framed by a white wimple and black scarf, features as gray as her clothing. "Where did you come across this child, Monsieur, if she is no relation?" 

The words would not form on his lips. "A man . . . in the street. He tried . . . he tried to sell her to me. For the night." 

Sister Simon was seated, but she rose to her full height in the chair. "Did you know this man?" 

"No." Jules shook his head, then paused, catching a glimpse of red through the window - Aimee's shawl. He fixed his eyes on her playing in the garden as he spoke. "I was coming back from the tavern. He was in the shadows - I don't know where he came from. There was a thief - the gendarmes caught him. The man fled. . . he left the little girl alone, in the street, with me." 

"And you did not give her to the police?" 

He turned toward the nun, bewildered. "They would have locked her in a cell. Or turned her back to the street. Surely it was right to protect her?" 

"I find no fault with the intent, young man. God loves those of his children who succor the needy and abandoned." Sighing, she rose to her feet and set aside the papers. "I'm afraid we cannot take the child." 

Jules took a step toward the desk. "What? Why?" 

"She's been defiled." 

He was too stunned to speak at first, and then bit back the words the instant they appeared on his tongue. Although his father's attempts to raise him in the church had met with little success, there was still enough of the teaching left within him to keep him from shouting at a nun. Instead, Jules turned around and crumpled his hat into a ball. "She's an innocent little girl," he said, somehow managing to control his voice. 

"No, Monsieur Verne, she is not." He nearly jumped when the elderly woman's hand touched his shoulder. Sister Simon gestured toward a door on his left. "Here we have forty-three innocent little girls, many younger than the one you've found, all of them without a mother, or father, or family. They are poor, but they are also innocent of the world. Would you have us endanger their souls by exposing them to the foulness your Aimee has endured?" 

Jules shook his head slightly, his gaze fixed on the door - it might have been bolted shut for all the good it would do for Aimee. "There's no hope here for her." 

"Not now. You should take her to a house of fallen women; they might take pity on her and let her earn her keep with household tasks. If she lives to the age of reason, she may repent her sins and finally find comfort in the bosom of the church--" 

"She has no sins," declared Jules suddenly, turning on the nun. "She's a little girl. She's not responsible for what's happened to her." 

Sister Simon raised her hand to bless him with the sign of the cross. "God keep you, Monsieur Verne . . . and the child. I'm sorry, but we cannot take her in." 

Before she had finished the motion of her hand, he was already halfway to the door. Jules slapped his cap over his hair and headed through the covered archway into the garden. 

Aimee saw him coming, a smile lighting her features. Releasing the hand of the young nun with her, she raced toward him holding a single flower, whose orange-colored petals were tipped with brown, already half-dead. "Look, Jules! I have a flower that smells like the soap!" 

"We have to go," he said sharply. His was angry enough to forget his manners, but those ingrained remnants of his childhood education had greater sway than his immediate emotions - he paused to nod curtly to the nun. "Sister." 

The nun chased after him as he hurried Aimee from the walled garden along the path that led to the gate. "Monsieur Verne - wait! Please! You've forgotten her things!" 

He hesitated out of respect - his father would have struck him for less, would do so even now if he were present - and out of necessity, for the bundle she brought to him held all of Aimee's earthly possessions. 

The nun caught up with him, but looked first to Aimee as she approached. "She's a beautiful girl." 

She touched Aimee's chin, but the child's expression was suddenly guarded. He smiled down at Aimee, realizing that he'd frightened her, then met the nun's eyes guiltily as he took the bundle. "Pardon me, sister. I--" 

"I understand. Many in need are turned away from here. Too many." She bowed her head for a moment, then looked up to meet his gaze. She had large, lovely eyes, the color of spring grass. "You must take Aimee to the government foundling home. Not tonight," she gestured toward the sun, which was already beginning to set, "it's too late, they close their gates at dusk. If you go tomorrow, they _will_ take her. She'll be fed, and clothed, and taught her lessons." 

Jules brushed Aimee's hair with his hand and she managed a small smile at him, but he could see the worry in her eyes. "Is this foundling home a good place? Clean? Will they treat her well?" 

"A few coins could make the difference," said the young nun, shrugging in answer to his questions. "Her life won't be easy, but it'll be better than the one she's known. She'll be sheltered from the cold, in any case." 

"That's more than I can do." Tucking the small bundle beneath his elbow, Jules held out his hand. "Thank you, Sister--?" 

"Sister Bertrand," she said, taking his hand and shaking it gently. 

He expected her hand to be as soft as the skin on her face. Instead, he found her fingers scored and callused. His surprise must have shown in his expression, because she released his hand quickly. "We all give to God in our own ways, Monsieur. For me, it's the garden." 

Jules nodded, embarrassed and not quite knowing what to say. 

"Let me show you the way to the street." Taking Aimee's hand, Sister Bertrand led him along a stone pathway edged by hedges. 

Jules was jealous of the ease with which the sister had gotten Aimee to trust her, their clasped hands swinging between them as they walked. A moment ago he had been so certain that this was the wrong place for Aimee, but as he watched the smile she shared with Sister Bertrand, he was suddenly sorry the church had found the child wanting. Could this have been the proper place for her, protected from the evils of the world until she was of a proper age to deal with them? 

And what age would that be? He hardly knew, having found himself the target of evil men with dreadful schemes, and not having the faintest clue of how or why he'd been placed in that position. 

At the gate, Sister Bertrand rested her free hand on Aimee's head. "God bless you, child." Then she placed Aimee's hand in Jules'. "And God bless you, too, Monsieur. Take her to the foundling home tomorrow. She may not find comfort there, but she'll thrive. Perhaps, like me, when she's older she may find her peace elsewhere." 

"Sister, wait--" 

But the gate had been closed, and locked, Sister Bertrand disappearing within the quiet shadows of the convent garden, while he and Aimee stood on the noisy streets of Paris in the fading light of dusk. He drew Aimee closer to him as a heavily-ladened cart clattered past on rickety wheels. 

"I want to play with the dogs again, Jules," announced Aimee, tugging at his hand and pointing to a green patch on the other side of the boulevard. 

"They've gone home. I think it's time we headed home, too." Jules enviously watched another cart pass - he'd be tempted to hitch a ride if it weren't going in the wrong direction. His neighborhood wasn't that far, just enough to be intimidating. With the setting of the sun came an evening chill - it seemed the summer warmth they'd enjoyed the night before was now gone. 

The cold made him think of Aimee. Kneeling down, he wrapped her shawl more tightly around her. "Is that better?" 

"Yes." She leaned forward, laying her head on his shoulder. "I'm tired. Can I have some bread and butter?" 

"When we get home, yes." Jules dropped his hand into the pocket of his jacket and felt the coins remaining in the bottom of the sock. Enough to pick up something warm to eat at a tavern on the way home . . . but Sister Bertrand had told him Aimee would receive a more welcoming reception at the foundling home if there was money to pay her way. 

Hearing the faint jingle of the coins in his pocket as he released his hold on them, Jules repeated, "When we get home." 

He quickly discovered that he wasn't used to walking with a child. When he went anywhere with his friends from the Aurora, they ambled, or strolled, but more often ran, always dashing to or from danger it seemed. He was used to setting his own pace, but now he found his steps curtailed by the length of her smaller legs. Their trip to the Orphanage of the Sisters of Mercy had been pleasant, under a shining sun, with an afternoon breeze, and a side trip to the park. 

Darkness brought on an itch between his shoulders, a wariness of unseen danger. Only the main boulevard showed any real signs of light and life, even this early in the evening. Taking to the small side streets that would lead to his rooming house meant dodging through shadowy corners, past places of dubious repute which might at another time have held an allure simply because they were different, because they were _Paris_. 

He found he couldn't hold tightly enough to Aimee, one of his hands clasping hers, his other hand on her shoulder, constantly in danger of falling over her because he needed to stand at her back to protect her. Jules soon realized that he was more alarmed than Aimee - she showed no fear of the dark, nor of the strangers who moved into and out of the shadows, shouting, careening drunkenly against the alley walls or one another, laughing as they went. 

This was her world and he was the stranger in it. 

To his relief, neither of them recognized anyone on the journey back to his rooming house. Jules knew that Aimee had walked about as far as her legs could carry her at least a half mile from his door. After making her promise to hold tightly to the bundle, he swung her into his arms and carried her the rest of the way. 

Aimee was light, but after carrying her weight that distance he was more than pleased to see the door of the rooming house ahead . . . and just as wearily contemplating the climb up the stairs to his room. They had, at least, managed to straighten things before they'd left earlier in the day. There was only the matter of dinner to consider - the last of the bread, cheese, and pastry, enough for the two of them - and then washing up, followed by bed. He was _not_ looking forward to spending another night on the floor, but he could see no alternative. 

So occupied was he by these thoughts, that he misjudged the weight he put on the second step as he climbed the stairs with Aimee in his arms. The warped wood twisted beneath his feet - the instant before he heard the prolonged 'creak', he knew they were done for. 

Mme Ludek popped out of her door in the lower apartment like a comic doll in a puppet theatre, hurrying up to the steps and peering through the dim light of the courtyard at him. "Monsieur Verne!" 

Resigned to his fate - which could have been anything from having to pay for an extra boarder for the night to being ejected from his room - Jules sighed and set Aimee down on the step above him. 

"Yes, Mme Ludek." He stomped unhappily down the steps to face her. 

His landlady stared through the balustrade of the stairs. "Who is that?" 

"My sister." It was so much easier to lie when he was tired. "Aimee, this is my landlady, Mme Ludek." He cleared his throat. "My family was visiting. She was supposed to return to Nantes with my brother - I'm sure he'll be here any minute to retrieve her--" 

"See that he does." 

Jules couldn't believe his luck when she nodded sternly and turned away, but before he could move toward the stairs, she added, "Oh, and there was a man looking for you; he came to the door not more than an hour ago." 

"A man?" He glanced back at Aimee worriedly. Could it have been Dondre? 

"Yes. A Spaniard, I think." 

"A . . . Spaniard?" Puzzled, Jules scratched his head. "I don't know--" 

"In any case, he left you this--" she handed him a paper folded over and sealed, "and a basket in your room - some bread and a bottle of wine, I think. I didn't see it well enough." 

Mme Ludek had broken the wax seal, no doubt, but Jules had expected as much. It didn't matter, as the scent of the paper told him precisely whom the letter was from. He flipped it open and stood beside the window to Mme Ludek's rooms - the light shining through was barely enough to make out the words. 

"'Have landed safely--'" he read aloud to Aimee, who was now standing at the balustrade. "'Come if you're not otherwise engaged.'" He laughed, suddenly giggly with relief. "Otherwise engaged?" 

Mme Ludek didn't seem to see the joke. Jules ran to the balustrade and showed Aimee the letter through the spaces between the slats. "They've come back," he told her. "They've come back and they want us to visit them." 

Aimee stared at him with owl eyes, as uncomprehending as Mme Ludek. 

"It was Passepartout," he explained to her. "The man who was here - his name is Passepartout and - Aimee, you'll love him. He's a lot of fun." Jules turned toward Mme Ludek. "His name is Passepartout." 

"I don't care what he's called, that Spaniard." She huffed indignantly, shuffling back to her doorway. "Thinks he's a charmer!" 

For a moment, Jules stared after her - he almost thought he saw his landlady smile before the door banged closed on her - then he ran to the stairs and took Aimee's hand, quickly leading her up the steps. "You should wash your face and hands, and change your smock. My shirt should be dry - at least I'll be able to change." 

But as he dragged her into the room behind him, Aimee dug in her heels, pulling back. "Jules! Jules!" 

He stopped, suddenly realizing that something was wrong, and knelt down in front of her. "What is it? Are you sick?" 

"I--" She stared at him, then threw her arms around his neck. "Please don't sell me, Jules. Please don't sell me!" 

Her panic-stricken tone cut directly to his heart. His arms went around her immediately and Jules hugged her as tightly as he dared. "I'm not going to sell you." Pulling back from her a little, he showed her the letter again. "This is from my friends. We're going to see them now. And we have to dress up the best we can, because they're very important people." 

"Are they rich?" asked Aimee, staring down at the paper. She took it from him and lifted it to her nose, realizing that it had a pretty scent. "Nice." 

"Very nice. And as far as money goes, probably very rich, too." He slipped his suspenders from his shoulders, rose to his feet, and began to unbutton his shirt. "But what's even more important," he informed her, as he shrugged out of his rumpled shirt and pulled the clean one from the shutter, "is that they're very smart. They'll help me find you a home, a _proper_ home," he decided, tucking the shirt into his trousers. "A place where you can be happy." 

"We can be happy in the glass house, can't we?" 

Jules paused a moment, a lump in his throat as he stared at his reflection in the window. Aimee was standing behind him, Rebecca's letter held in her hand. She could have no idea what the letter meant, no idea what she was asking. 

"Of course we can." He practiced his smile for a moment before turning toward her. "Now, let's open the bundle and change your smock - it might be wrinkled, but at least it'll be clean." 

As Aimee busied herself in changing her clothing, Jules turned back to the window and looked up at the stars in the night sky. They weren't quite close enough to touch, but they felt nearer here than in the street. Somewhere beyond that darkness, there was a God who'd been asked twice today to bless him, and to bless the child. Surely a God who could arrange the return of his friends at the proper moment would forgive him the small lie he'd just told Aimee? 

The question was, could he forgive himself? 

**** 

End of Chapter Five 

**** 


	6. Chapter 6

**** 

**Chapter 6 - _In which children are discussed_**

Rebecca paced the length of the Aurora's salon, all the while tapping the telegraph message against her palm. Occasionally she glanced out one of the portholes, but the sun had set well over an hour before. 

"There's nothing to be done," said Phileas. "If Verne doesn't appear in the next hour, we'll simply leave without him." 

"We can't. It would be rude, after Passepartout left the message with his landlady--" 

"Who may never have given it to him." 

Rebecca ignored the comment and pointed the telegraph message at him. "If Chatsworth expects me to find out whether our Ambassador to Spain is passing secrets to the French, I'll need assistance. And you, as you never fail to remind me, want nothing more to do with the service." 

Folding his arms, Phileas raised an eyebrow at her. "And how, _exactly_, could an impoverished French law student be crucial to your plans?" 

"The daughter." 

"Whose daughter?" 

"The ambassador's daughter." Rebecca paused for a moment, letting that sink in. "She's supposedly _very_ partial to handsome, young French artists." 

"Ah." Phileas nodded sagely. "I know the type - spinster, with a harelip. Have you no common decency, Rebecca? You'll be throwing him to a shark." 

Rebecca took another turn across the floor. "She was presented to the Queen only last year, so she's probably a shade younger than Jules. And I've been told that she's quite pretty." 

His pretense of disinterest was almost charming. "You do realize there's a serious flaw in your plan? Verne is a writer, _not_ an artist." 

"He sketches." 

"He draws buildings and battleships and . . . God only knows what else. I can't make head or tail of half the things in his sketchbook. That hardly qualifies him as an artist." Phileas reached down to flick an invisible piece of lint from his trouser leg. "Perhaps I've met her socially. What does she look like--?" 

The sound of movement on the deck outside the door was actually a relief. Rebecca stopped in mid-pace and turned, a smile already forming. As Verne pushed the door to one side and entered, she moved toward him, only absently noting the small bundle he carried in his right hand. "Jules! I didn't think you'd make it." 

Phileas was also on his feet. "You cut it close this time, Verne. I was about to tell Passepartout - what in blazes is this?" 

'This,' as it turned out, was a child, a little girl, who was holding Jules' left hand. She let out a startled, "Oh!" at Phileas' exclamation and ducked behind Jules as if hiding. 

"Fogg!" groaned Verne through clenched teeth, in utter exasperation. "Now you've frightened her!" 

As he knelt down, the child lost her hiding place. She moved into his arms, her left hand clutching the collar of his jacket, the right in front of her mouth, as if she were afraid to speak. 

"It's all right, Aimee," said Verne, in a soft and careful voice. "These are my friends, they won't hurt you. This is Rebecca Fogg--" 

Hearing her cue, Rebecca stepped forward and offered her hand, which the child took only after a glance of confirmation from Verne. "What a lovely name - it's Aimee?" she asked, switching to French without even thinking. 

There were ash-blonde curls and brown eyes, a little stub of a nose . . . and a posture of controlled terror, as if the only thing that kept the child from bolting was Verne's hand on her back and her grip on his collar. 

"And this is Phileas Fogg." 

Phileas seemed at a loss for a moment, then bowed slightly toward the child. A smile crossed her face and she pulled Verne closer, whispering in his ear. Verne glanced down at the ground, trying to control a laugh. 

"What?" asked Phileas, turning an accusing glance at Rebecca, as if he suspected her of sharing the private joke. "What did she say?" 

"She said that you had a funny name," explained Verne. 

"Well, I suppose it would be . . . in French." He shot another look at Rebecca as she chuckled. "It's certainly not _that_ funny. 

"Philly-ass?" asked Aimee. 

"He is, more often than not," said Rebecca. It slipped out before she could stop herself and she brought a hand up to her lips quickly. 

Even an apologetic nod from her wasn't enough to soothe Phileas, who had murder in his eyes momentarily. "Someday we'll have a discussion about French names and then we'll see what's funny." 

The little girl moved closer to Verne - if that was possible - and asked, "Shall I tell them my English words?" 

"No!" answered Verne quickly, his cheeks coloring. He met Rebecca's eyes, as if looking for support from her - but she had no context to work with and couldn't help him. "I don't think that's such a good idea right now. Maybe later." 

It was something that Rebecca made a note to pursue, but then the child spoke again. 

"Is Philly-ass a gentleman?" 

"Quite so." Phileas nodded. "She may not be able to pronounce my name, but at least she knows quality," he informed Rebecca. 

Her eyes, however, were on Verne, who'd gone quite pale. He glanced up at Phileas, then turned back to the child. Catching her chin in his hand, he fixed her gaze on him. "No, Aimee. He won't hurt you. Phileas is _not_ one of your 'gentlemen.'" 

"Verne!" There was a note of hurt in Phileas' voice - Rebecca was certain only she'd caught it. "I resent that." 

The child's eyes widened at Phileas' outburst. Rebecca moved to Phileas and caught his arm, hissing his name between her teeth in warning. 

"No, I've just been insulted. You heard him! Verne just told his sister--" 

"She's not my sister," said Verne quietly. He rose to his feet, one hand resting on the child's red shawl, and repeated even more emphatically, "She's _not_ my sister." 

"Then who the devil is sh--?" 

Rebecca squeezed Phileas' arm to stop him in mid-sentence; he was speaking too loudly and it was frightening the child. She looked at the little girl's face, memorizing the features, then gave Verne an equally appraising stare. 

"She's not mine, either," he added, with a bit more defiance than the situation warranted. 

That would have made her suspicious, had it not sounded like something he'd memorized by rote. "I didn't think she was. There's absolutely no resemblance." 

Verne seemed startled by her remark, perhaps even hurt by it. He'd opened his mouth to reply, when a clatter from the salon door captured everyone's attention. 

A tray carrying tea and small sandwiches was rolled into view, Passepartout following. "I was thinking I was hearing Jules' voices," he began, then stopped, seeing the child. "Is a little girl!" 

"Passepartout, your powers of observation will _never_ cease to amaze me," said Phileas. He picked up a teacup from the tray as Passepartout approached him with the silver teapot in hand-- 

But Passepartout walked right past him and stood before the child. Verne was smiling and held out his hand, saying, "Aimee, this is my friend, Passepartout. Passepartout, this is my friend, Aimee." 

"I am being very happy to make your acquaintances." Passepartout leaned down to shake the child's hand gently. 

Aimee backed up a step, but smiled up at Verne. "I like Passepartout," she announced. 

Still holding his empty teacup, Phileas glared at Verne. "If she can say his name - why can't she pronounce mine correctly?" 

Passepartout looked blankly at Rebecca and she winked at him, then gestured for him to serve Phileas his tea. Fixing a steady gaze on Verne, she said, "I think, Jules, there are things we need to discuss?" 

"Yes, but--" he nodded his head toward Aimee, then shrugged, as if questioning what he should do. 

Having finished pouring Phileas' tea, Passepartout placed the teapot back on the tray and whirled to face them. "There is a nice slice of cakes in the kitchen, if little miss would be liking some?" 

"Capital idea, Passepartout," agreed Rebecca. She whisked her hand toward Passepartout to further her agreement, but Verne hesitated, glancing down at the child. 

"I don't know about cake. We haven't eaten yet and - I don't think her stomach's up to it," added Verne, with enough conviction to convince Rebecca he'd had recent experience with that situation. 

"Then maybes we try some toast with honey? I have been buying some strawberry jams . . . ? 

Aimee was obviously interested in the offer, taking a half-step forward, but then stopping and looking back at Verne. He rested a hand in her hair for a moment, then gave her a little push. "Go ahead. You'll be safe with Passepartout. I have to talk to my friends now, but I'll be right here if you need me." 

The child was hesitant, but even she couldn't ignore Passepartout's winsome smile. As she walked toward him, he held out his hand and took her own, leading her to the kitchen. 

"Tell me," Passepartout asked her, "how is little miss unpronouncing Master Phileas' name?" 

"Philly-ass." 

Rolling his eyes, Phileas sank into a chair after the door closed behind them. "I think we need to address the pronunciation issue immediately, don't you, Verne?" 

"In a minute, Phileas," warned Rebecca. Seating herself on the green sofa, closer to Phileas, she then patted the other side of the couch and looked up at Verne. "Sit. Explain." 

Verne dropped onto the seat as if his legs would no longer hold him. Leaning forward, he ran his hands through his hair, as if in despair. "Thank God you came back," he said. "I don't know what to do." 

His eyes were sunken slightly, as if he hadn't slept, and there was more care burdening him than she had seen before. 

Rebecca gestured toward Phileas, motioning for him to get Verne a cup of tea. Phileas waved her off at first, but as she continued to gesture toward him - and shot him a threatening look Verne didn't catch - he finally rose and made his way over to the trolley. 

"Perhaps you'd best begin at the beginning," she told Verne. "It's as good a place to start as any." 

"I suppose." Verne looked up to take the teacup Phileas offered him and added, "Thank you, Fogg." 

Rebecca caught Phileas' gaze as he returned to his seat; he'd noticed the haggard appearance of Verne, as well. The story was begun with some hesitation - Verne was more than a little embarrassed to admit to her that he'd been out drinking with his friends until all hours. She tried to keep her expression concerned, but neutral, not wanting to get off on a tangent. It was when he described the approach of the pimp and then the subsequent appearance of the police that she stopped him. 

"It seems inconceivable to me that anyone would approach you for--" Rebecca found that she couldn't quite say the words. "Monstrous!" 

"Verne - you said it was after two in the morning, yes?" When Verne nodded, Phileas lifted his teacup toward Rebecca. "There's your answer. The old man hadn't found a berth for the girl and was obviously desperate, considering he'd approach as unlikely a candidate as Verne." 

"Thank you," repeated Verne, obviously relieved. 

"And he must have been half-blind as well. Just take a look at him. I ask you, Rebecca, does it look to you as if Verne was a man of wealth and prosperity who could afford to feed such vices?" 

Verne merely hung his head, while Rebecca took the occasion to narrow her eyes and give her cousin a look of rebuke. She then took Verne's empty teacup from his hands and placed it on the table. If her fingers should have lingered on his a few seconds more than necessary, it was simply an act of compassion. He raised his head enough to smile wanly at her. 

"What of the child?" she asked. "You haven't been caring for her by yourself?" 

"Yes, I have," Verne admitted. "I have younger sisters at home, so--" 

"You have sisters?" asked Phileas in surprise. He set down his own teacup and leaned forward. "You've never told us." 

Verne met Phileas' accusing stare with grim determination. "You never asked. I didn't think they mattered to you. I have a younger brother, too." 

"They matter very much to us, as do you," said Rebecca quickly, rising to her feet. Both Phileas and Verne rose as well, but she motioned them to be seated again. Picking up Verne's abandoned cup, she managed to stay between them, wanting to forestall that argument for another time. "I must imagine you've had quite an experience." Continuing on to the tea service, Rebecca suddenly turned toward Verne, who was still mirroring Phileas' combative stare. "Her clothes--?" 

"I got them at a ragshop this morning. It was the best I could afford." His cheeks flushed and he looked down again, as if too embarrassed to meet her gaze. "I got her fed and she had a bath . . . ." 

She had turned away to pour the tea but heard something when his voice trailed off, almost a choked sob. Abandoning the filled cup on the table, she sank on her knees before him and took his hands, her skirts billowing out around her. "Jules?" 

When he looked up, his eyes were fixed on the portholes of the Aurora and he cleared his throat. She could see the beginning of tears in his eyes. "In the bath, I saw the marks on her. I saw what those--those--" he turned his head to glare at Phileas, "what those _gentlemen_ had done to her." 

Rebecca had been watching from the corner of her eye - she was instantly aware when Phileas shot out of his chair and to his feet. She, too, rose, again keeping herself between Phileas and Verne, knowing that what Verne had unwittingly intimated was nothing short of a declaration of a duel to her cousin. 

He surprised her. Instead of heading directly across the room to the brace of dueling pistols kept in the sideboard for just such an occasion, Phileas stalked past the Aurora's navigational console and moved to the observation window at the fore of the cabin. He'd gone quite pale and his hands had wrapped around the metal rail there with such force that she unreasonably feared he might snap it. 

As Verne's life was no longer in immediate danger, she looked back to find him surreptitiously wiping the tears from his eyes as he tried to regain his self-control. The only thing to do for several moments was to pour another cup of tea for Phileas and pretend there was nothing amiss, with only the soft swish of her skirts and the sound of the tea trickling into the cup to break the silence. 

"What do you plan to do with the child?" asked Rebecca, settling Phileas' cup on the tray. "Send her to your family." 

"_No._" 

The answer was so abrupt and vehement that it shocked her - she half-turned and saw Phileas look toward them. 

Verne dared a glance up at her. His eyes were free of tears, but had hardened. "My father wouldn't let her through the front door." 

"Surely you can't mean to keep her?" He looked away and didn't answer. Rebecca expertly navigated the end of the table and seated herself on the couch beside him, softly chiding, "Jules!" 

"I know." He glanced back toward where Phileas was standing. "I can barely afford to feed myself - how could I hope to take care of Aimee?" He clasped his hands together and let his arms hang between his knees. "I brought her to the Sisters of Mercy today, but they wouldn't take her. They said she'd been . . . defiled." 

There was a whisper of an angry sound from Phileas; Rebecca thought it might have been an oath, but she wasn't certain. Reaching over, she took Verne's hands in hers and squeezed them. "There's more than enough room at Shillingworth Magna. We had a wonderful time growing up there, didn't we Phileas?" 

There was another grunt from him that she took as assent, but it could well have been another oath, the mood he was in. 

"Thank you . . . but no." 

Verne touched her hands gently to lessen the sharpness of the words, but still Rebecca was stunned that he dismissed the idea so quickly. She glanced over at Phileas, half to question and half to blame. Surely some of this was his doing? 

But Verne intercepted the gaze, his eyes somewhat sorrowful, as if he hadn't intended his words to hurt her. "Not that I don't appreciate the offer," he added quickly. "But . . . I don't think it's the best thing for her." 

"You could visit her whenever you liked. She'll have a lovely room - there are still several dolls and a hobbyhorse in the playroom, but I suspect she'll need new toys. And - and - we've bought messenger pigeons. Passepartout is going to train them. You could send us a message whenever you wanted to see her and we'd bring her--" 

Phileas had turned and was watching her with a studious gaze. Even Verne seemed surprised at her vehemence, his eyes wide. 

Feeling utterly embarrassed and completely petulant, Rebecca let go of Verne, swirled around the far end of the table, and stood with her arms crossed and her back to them both. "I don't see any problem with Shillingworth Magna. And I resent the fact that you've just insulted my childhood home." 

She suspected it would be Verne who would approach her, but it was Phileas' voice at her back--"He's right, Rebecca." 

Turning on Phileas with a scorching glare, she prepared a string of words that would blister the smile from his face. 

But he wasn't smiling. His expression could best be described as resigned, with perhaps an undercurrent of barely controlled anger. "Or at least he _thinks_ he is," Phileas amended, turning back to face Verne. "It's not that Shillingworth Magna isn't good enough for the child . . . it's _too_ good. Am I right, Verne?" 

His nod was barely perceptible; although his gaze was fixed on Rebecca, his words were for Phileas. "I knew _you'd_ understand." 

Still baffled, Rebecca stared at her cousin. "Explain." 

"Just as Verne had perceived difficulty in admitting the child into the bosom of his family, he foresees the same reaction from our unfortunately none-too-distant relations. There will always be questions asked; forestall them now, but even more so when the child reaches her majority." He leaned closer, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper. "When her fiancee approaches us for her hand in marriage, will you be the one to explain her unfortunate past, or shall that impossible duty fall to me? There would not be dowry enough on earth to keep him from racing from the house in a blind panic." 

The words, 'But if he truly loved her--?' hung on her lips for a brief moment before she abandoned them. Rebecca stood completely still as Phileas walked away, then focused her attention on Verne. "There must be another way. Perhaps there's a family at the estate which would prove more . . . suitable?" 

It was the wrong word and the hurt in Verne's eyes made her wish she'd held her tongue. "At least you think she's good enough to be a servant." 

"That's not what I--" 

"Let it _go_," hissed Phileas quietly, as he stalked by her. 

She couldn't win this one. Understanding that gave her insight into the anger she saw on her cousin's face. It also prompted the strongest urge she'd ever had to strike Verne, to wipe away those silly class distinctions of which he seemed to take so much notice and despise. 

Instead, Rebecca chose a chair across from Verne, not trusting herself to sit too close at the moment. "Do you have another solution in mind?" she asked, consciously raising an eyebrow and letting her voice turn to ice. 

It was his turn to look discomforted and she wasn't about to ease his mind with even the slightest hint of a smile. "A sister at the convent suggested that I take her to the city foundling home." 

Rebecca saw Phileas come to a sudden stop, but he never turned. Keeping his back to Verne, he asked, "You've visited this place?" 

"I didn't have a chance - by the time we left the convent, the foundling home had closed their gates for the night. Sister Bertrand said that if I took Aimee to the home tomorrow, they'd accept her." 

Phileas turned his head slightly and Rebecca, who'd been watching him, took notice of the barest nod in her direction. They were no doubt thinking of the same thing - in London, Aimee would have found herself in a workhouse, a dreary place that offered the poor little more than a short life of pointless toil in exchange for meager rations and a generally dry, although rat-and-lice-infested, accommodation. The relief for local widows and orphans offered slightly better accommodations, but for a select few who had been born in that English parish. Neither of them were all that familiar with the French attitude toward the youngest souls abandoned by society, but they could well guess. 

"She also said," began Verne quietly, "that if I had some money, it might make a difference." He looked away, unable to meet Rebecca's gaze. "I can sell some of my law books, but not before tomorrow morning. It would be a loan until the end of the week, at most." 

Rebecca could hear the effort in his voice, the self-inflicted wound to his pride. Had she been as forward with, as Phileas had termed it, her charitable enterprise on Verne's behalf, she would surely have driven him away. She had no idea what to say or do, only knowing that her initial instinct - to run to Verne, wrap her arms around him, and promise him every shilling she had - would have been entirely inappropriate. 

"Let us say, this is a loan between gent--" Phileas stopped himself, then turned to face Verne, a severe expression on his face . . . and looking frighteningly like his father. "A loan between _friends_," he amended smoothly. "No collateral, nor interest. I'll accept your marker or your handshake. Shall we say, two hundred francs, repayment to be made in a fortnight?" 

Her outrage rising, Rebecca glared at Phileas - such a paltry sum! Verne surely spent twice that on his monthly rent and expenses. 

But before she could protest, Verne was on his feet and moving toward Phileas, his palm outstretched. "Done!" he exclaimed, obviously relieved as Phileas shook his hand. "Thank you, Fogg. I'll pay you back." 

Phileas' eyebrows rose, as if in astonishment. "Of course. We've just shaken on the deal, haven't we?" 

Rebecca opened her mouth to say something when they heard a sound they'd never heard on the Aurora before - a child's laughter. All three of them turned toward the kitchen door, but it was Verne who moved first. Like a child himself, he placed both hands on the table and vaulted the corner, startling Phileas. 

"He's gotten her to laugh!" Verne exclaimed in delight, barely pausing to open the door as he hit it as a run. 

The tea trolley sailed toward Rebecca - she stopped it with an outstretched foot. Still fuming, she peered at Phileas through lowered lids. "Two hundred francs?" 

"You disapprove?" Phileas lifted his spilled teacup from the floor with two fingers and placed it back on the trolley. "He was about to ask for half that amount." 

"And you know that because?" 

It was that insufferable, infuriating smile he often wore when he knew he was right about something she simply couldn't understand. "Accept it as a given." 

She pursed her lips, gave him a considering glance, then nodded. "You won't press him for payment?" 

"There won't be any need. I'll wager Verne will have that two hundred francs back to me in less than a fortnight." 

"And you'll take it from him, even if he has to starve himself to pay you back?" 

Visibly exasperated, Phileas half-turned from her as if to collect himself. Then he pointed back to where Verne had been seated and said, "Did you hear him _ask_?" 

"Yes," she admitted, after a pause, remembering that sound in Verne's voice. 

"And what would be the outcome, do you think, if I suddenly told him I didn't want the money back?" 

He was furious with her obstinacy - this time rightfully so. Sighing Rebecca nodded. "You're right." 

"You have no _concept_ of--" Then Phileas stopped in mid-sentence, the bluster running out of him into a sputtered exclamation of surprise. "I'm right?" 

Rebecca rose, retrieved the saucer from the floor to replace it on the tea trolley, and repeated, "You're right." 

"Of course I'm right." Phileas toyed with the lapels of his coat for a moment, flustered. "It's just - I hate when you do that." 

She moved closer and fixed them for him, running her palm down the length of his right lapel to smooth it. "Do what?" 

"Admit that I'm right and you're wrong, when I'm absolutely certain that I'm completely in the right." Phileas was sulking now. "It takes the wind out of one's sails, changing tack like that." 

"Next time I'll try to disagree with you longer," Rebecca offered, then wrapped her arm around his. "Shall we go check on the children?" 

He smiled easily in reply, opened his mouth as if to say something . . . and then turned his attention to the flower in his lapel. "You were particularly eloquent when explaining why the child should be kept at Shillingworth Magna." He finally looked at her, with no outwardly discernible agenda. 

Rebecca met his eyes, despite her uncertainty at being able to hide her unease from him. Phileas could be uncannily perceptive at times, usually when it would prove to be the most embarrassing for her. "I thought it might be the best solution for the child. That's all." 

"That's all," he echoed faintly. "I often wonder if the lack of children in the manor isn't a deficit - I mean, the staff must miss it, surely?" 

"Broken windows, splintered furniture, scuff marks on the floor, torn drapes, sliced portraits--" 

"That was only once," countered Phileas sternly. "And it was entirely your fault, daring me to take a stab at the General while sliding down the banister--" 

"You _were_ holding the sword at the time--" 

"You haven't answered the question." 

She held her breath for a long moment, her eyes pleading with him not to press the issue, not now. "I'm not entirely certain what the question was." 

It was his turn to hesitate. For a long moment Phileas stared at her; she swore she saw the slightest movement of his lips . . . and then he shook his head. "I can't remember. And the General _wasn't_ my fault." 

Their arms intertwined, he led her into the kitchen just as Rebecca answered quickly, "And I suppose the chair in the front parlor was _also_ my responsibility--" 

For some reason, the kitchen was covered in a veil of white, which Rebecca recognized immediately as flour. Verne, Passepartout, and Aimee were huddled in a corner, their heads together, as if concocting some conspiracy. 

Verne caught sight of them first and struggled to his feet, grinning like a fool - he, too, was covered with flour, although Passepartout seemed to have gotten the worst of it. The valet straightened when faced with the presence of Phileas' raised eyebrow and rushed from the room, muttering something about retrieving the tea trolley. Aimee was standing beside Verne, something colorful in her hand. 

Before Rebecca quite realized what was happening, Aimee was running toward her. "Look! Look! Jules made me a doll!" 

"Is this another skill that we can add to the list of your unending talents?" asked Phileas. 

Verne smiled and shrugged almost shyly. "I used to make them for my sisters. Passepartout had some rags. We tried filling it with flour, but--" 

"I can see that it wasn't entirely a success," noted Phileas, turning around to survey the wholesale devastation. "I should hope this won't delay dinner." 

Rebecca rolled her eyes at him, then knelt down beside Amy on the flour-covered floor. "Let me see, darling," she asked, as Aimee held the doll out for her inspection. It was little more than a bundle of rags tied together, but Verne had used an ink pen to sketch out eyes, eyebrows, eyelashes, and a button nose on the face. "I think I may have a ribbon upstairs we could tie in her hair," said Rebecca, studying the doll seriously. "Would you like a red one or a blue one?" 

"A red one," decided Aimee. 

Phileas stepped closer to view the doll. "Capitol choice," he commented. 

Rebecca felt Aimee shrink back against her. She looked up to see Phileas step away quickly, as if he'd found something of immense importance to interest him on the other side of the small room. 

"A red one it shall be." Rebecca handed the doll back to the child, then looked up at Verne, who was beaming proudly down on his foundling. "I have some rouge you might use to make a mouth." 

"Oh no," said Aimee quickly. "She mustn't have a mouth." 

"Why not?" asked Verne, studying the doll for some defect. "I think I could fit a mouth right _there_." He touched the doll lightly, but Aimee pulled it close to her chest and stared up at him. 

"She can't have a mouth, because she'd cry and cry and cry. And she's not allowed to cry, because then the gentlemen get mad. So she can't have a mouth, ever." Aimee held the doll out from her and looked at it critically. "But I'll love her anyway." 

Tears rose in Rebecca's eyes. She looked to Verne for support, but he'd turned away. Instead, she _did_ follow her first instincts this time and hugged the child to her tightly. 

From behind her, she heard Phileas say, "We're delaying our departure - Chatsworth be damned. Verne, perhaps Rebecca should accompany you to that foundling home tomorrow. These sorts of things proceed better with a woman's touch, don't you agree?" 

Rebecca knew then that Aimee would begin her life in the Paris foundling home with considerably more than two hundred francs to her credit. 

**** 

End of Chapter Six 

**** 


	7. Chapter 7

**** 

**Chapter 7 - _In which Jules considers a lock for the door_**

His first surprise, when he awoke and found himself staring up at the ceiling of the Aurora, was that Jules felt himself relax in utter contentment. What was it about this place that always made his body feel as if he were at home? 

The second surprise occurred as he attempted to turn and found the blankets on his right side pinned beneath a weight. By lifting himself slightly, he was able to confirm that Aimee was sleeping soundly atop the edge of his blanket, the ragdoll clutched to her chest. She was wearing a trimmed down red flannel shirt that Passepartout had produced from heavens only knew where. In hugging Aimee good-night, before she'd disappeared into Rebecca's chamber, he'd remembered thinking that it was much better than the shirt he'd provided - warm, soft, and ending just above her ankles, a miracle of instant tailoring accomplished by Passepartout. 

Although it was warm enough in the Aurora, he felt guilty that Aimee had slept without benefit of any covering the night before. Carefully turning his blanket over her, he leaned to press a kiss lightly on her left cheek. As a matter of course, he moved the hair away from her ear and discovered the bruises there to be less inflamed and more pink than purple. They might even be gone in a day or so. 

But if he left her at the foundling home this morning, he wouldn't see her in a day or so. 

The third, and what he hoped to be the final, surprise of the morning was the sound of a throat being cleared - Rebecca was seated on a chair by the door, wrapped in a dressing robe, her lap covered with a blanket. 

Modesty immediately won out over compassion as Jules flipped the blanket back over himself, pulled it up to his neck, and squeaked "Rebecca?" 

She placed two fingers to her lips and gestured toward Aimee. "She left my bed in the middle of the night. I'd have been more concerned if we'd been aloft, but I thought she shouldn't be left unattended. How she found you so quickly, I'll never know." And then she hesitated, her face going pale for a moment. "Jules, I'm sorry. That sounded--" 

"It's all right." 

Relieved, Rebecca nodded her thanks. "I apologize for dozing off. I thought I'd wait until she fell asleep, then carry her back upstairs, but," she shrugged lightly, "yesterday was a _very_ long day." 

Her robe parted slightly as she shrugged. Jules sat up, still holding the blanket to his neck, and found himself automatically staring at the well-placed folds of her nightgown. He looked away quickly. "Yesterday was a very long day for Aimee, as well. I'd like to let her sleep." 

"Would you like me to carry her upstairs for you?" 

Rebecca had begun walking toward the bed, the sash of her robe still swinging freely - he saw that much from the corner of his eye. Jules cleared his throat. "No - um - I didn't come prepared to stay the night and I didn't feel like sleeping in my clothes again, so I'm - um - it would be helpful if you'd just wait outside for a moment?" 

Her eyes widening in realization, Rebecca stopped in mid-step. "Oh. I apologize. I had no idea--" 

He'd expected her leave, but she hesitated, turning slightly as if knowing that being the center of her attention was making him uncomfortable. "I wanted to mention - since we may not have a moment later . . . be careful what you tell Phileas." 

"What I tell Phileas?" Jules stared at her - where she was standing in the morning sunlight, the drape of the robe was even more revealing. "About you falling asleep in my room, and me being--?" 

She chuckled beneath her breath and placed a palm over her eyes. "That wasn't what I meant," she admitted, "but I think we'd best keep that to ourselves as well." Dropping her hand from her eyes, she took a breath. "No. When I undressed Aimee last night, what I saw--" 

It was as if she needed to look at him, to meet his eyes and let him know that she understood. He saw her fighting the urge, but also noticed that her hand had clenched into a fist. 

Jules swallowed and glanced down at Aimee in the bed beside him. He wanted to very much to go to Rebecca, to wrap his arms around her . . . but understood that was impossible in his current state of undress. 

"Rebecca--" 

"I think it best," she continued, after a moment, "that we don't mention the details to Phileas. He won't ask. I'm not telling you to lie. Just don't . . . don't tell him." 

"You're afraid of what he might do?" 

She _did_ turn then and he saw the soft lines of her face go taut with concern. "Yes. And it's far too late for that to help anyone now, especially Aimee. So if you would be so kind--?" 

"You have my word," promised Jules. 

"Thank you." She looked down at Aimee and a sad smile touched her lips. "Before we go to the foundling home this morning, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to buy her a proper bonnet. And, perhaps, a slightly larger pair of shoes?" Meeting his eyes briefly, Rebecca's smile became apologetic. "Not that I think there's anything wrong with what you bought her, it's just that there aren't any little girls in the family at the moment. Nor does it seem as if there will be in the near--" She stopped and cleared her throat, looking away. "It would please me to do it for her. But I won't, if you'd prefer." 

That she was asking his permission to purchase presents for Aimee touched him. "If you'd like; it's for Aimee, after all. But Phileas said something last night about a telegraph and Chatsworth?" 

Rebecca smiled grimly. "I believe he also said, 'Bugger Chatsworth,' or words to that effect. Whether we had left last night or leave tonight will make no difference to the secret service. By tomorrow night, certainly. But then--" 

She glanced at Aimee again and Jules found that he could easily read her expression - by then, it really wouldn't matter, because the child would have been placed beyond their reach, there'd be no real reason to stay. 

Feeling the need to think about something other than handing Aimee over to the Parisian authorities like discarded baggage, Jules offered, "She likes scented soap." 

"Does she?" Rebecca turned a beaming smile on him. "Would you happen to know what scent?" 

"I - I don't know. It smelled like flowers. The shop girl chose it." 

"Which shop?" 

Again, he drew a blank. "A perfumery?" 

Her smile became more patient. "Jules, there must be over a hundred perfumeries in Paris. Which one?" 

Shrugging, he lost his grip on the blanket, which slipped to his waist. Jules scrambled for a hold on it and tugged it higher. To his horror, he saw Aimee begin to roll off the edge of the bed as the blanket was pulled out from beneath her, and grabbed for a handful of the red flannel nightshirt. 

He missed. 

Rebecca, however, didn't. Her dressing robe had slipped partially from her shoulders and she'd used it to slide across the floor, beside the bed. Her movement was so quick as to be a blur and Jules looked over the edge of the bed to see a disheveled Rebecca lying on the floor, Aimee ungracefully draped over her. 

The little girl had let out a startled, "Oh!" on impact. As she tried to rise, her legs went out from under her and she sat down on the floor immediately. 

Rebecca took the distressed child in her arms. "It's all right, darling. You've just fallen out of bed." 

"Bed?" she asked sleepily, rubbing an eye with her fist. Then she smiled at her rescuer. "Rebecca?" 

"Yes, darling." Rebecca touched her lips to Aimee's hair and hugged her. "Jules is very, very sorry that he pushed you out of bed, aren't you, Jules?" 

"I didn't push her," he protested, but then was forced to muster the protection of the blanket in full force as Aimee leaped out of Rebecca's arms, made the edge of the bed in once bounce, and pounced on him. 

"Jules!" 

One of her knees connected with what was certainly a vital organ. Even as he fell back against the bed in stunned shock, Aimee moved with him, her arms around his neck. She kissed his lips lightly, her brown eyes staring down into his. "Good morning, Jules." 

He groaned a response. As if on cue, Rebecca caught Aimee around the waist. Whirling her off the bed to the child's delight, she then lowered the little girl to the floor. "Let's see if we can get dressed faster than Jules," she suggested to the child. 

"I'll catch up . . . with you . . . at breakfast," moaned Jules. 

"You see," he heard Rebecca say in a loud whisper, "he knows we'll beat him!" 

Lying in bed and trying to fight the urge to curl up into a tight ball, Jules closed his eyes. He heard them at the door, but before it closed he heard another voice. 

"Rebecca?" 

"Good morning, Phileas." 

"And to you. You're looking particularly demure this morning." 

"Say 'good morning' to Phileas," prompted Rebecca's voice. 

"Good morning, Philly-ass." And then, "Philly-ass has won - he's already dressed!" 

The last comment faded into the distance. Jules opened his eyes as a light tap sounded at his door, and then Fogg entered, calling, "Verne, are you decent?" 

The man was fully dressed, right down to the carnation in his lapel. All that was missing was his cane and his hat, which were both, no doubt, awaiting him downstairs. 

Jules managed to hoist himself up to a seated position, the blanket still draped strategically around his lower body. "Fogg, just a suggestion, but do you think you should install a lock on that door?" 

"A lock?" Turning, Fogg closed the door and stood appraising it, a finger to his lip. "Not a bad idea. In case one of Passepartout's experiments go awry?" 

"Something like that." 

"I see your point." Then Fogg promptly pulled out the chair upon which Rebecca had been seated earlier and settled into it, his expression grim. "Forgive the intrusion, but I have something I need to discuss with you." 

"If it's about the way Aimee says your name, there's nothing I can--" 

Fogg waved his hand, dismissing that matter. "That's regrettable, but entirely understandable. I'd rather have the child comfortable than . . . not." He fixed Jules with a stern look. "You must understand the nature of the place to which you're taking the child, before you pass through the gates." 

"It's a foundling home . . . ," Jules offered weakly. 

"It's an institution. Anything of worth you send in with the child won't remain hers for long - they'll exchange good clothing for a standard cotton smock, new shoes for felt slippers, hair ribbons for common string. If it can be sold, it will be removed from her." 

A chill swept through him at the bluntness of the words and Jules sat up quickly in bed. "But the money?" 

"The money will make a difference at the start, but when they realize the child has no blood relations, it will disappear into private purses. She'll never find benefit in more than a penny of it." 

Jules swallowed, resentment toward Fogg's merciless words and his detached demeanor almost choking him. "Why didn't you tell me this last night?" 

"Because you wouldn't have listened to anything I had to offer last night. You were desperate and you'd thought you'd found a solution." Fogg nodded. "Perhaps you had, but it's the wrong solution." 

"What other choice do I have? I can't keep her, my family doesn't want her, the nuns won't take her, she can't stay with you--" 

"But if a family _could_ be found . . . ?" 

There was enough possibility in that question to stop Jules' heart from beating for an instant. "People who'd love her?" 

"Yes." 

"Care for her?" 

"Yes." 

"Educate her?" 

"Protect her? Adore her? Treat her as one of their own?" offered Fogg. "Yes, yes, and yes. There _are_ people who would gladly take her, it's simply a matter of finding them here, in her own country. But that will require time. We don't have time." He hesitated and looked to one side of the room, as if ill at ease. "There's a mission Rebecca needs to accomplish. She's more attentive to her safety when she's not distracted. _This_ is a distraction." 

Jules brought his legs up to his chest, winced at the lingering pain from Aimee's accidental assault, and patted the blanket on either side of his legs to preserve his modesty. His actions were merely a cover to his thoughts. The crew of the Aurora had lives of their own; by involving them in his dilemma regarding Aimee, he'd interrupted their activities. If Rebecca went on a mission and something happened to her because she was, as Fogg had said, 'distracted' . . . . 

"Thank you for telling me," he answered. Looking up, he found that Fogg's gaze was centered squarely on him again. "All of it." 

"Yes, well, we needn't share that portion of the conversation with Rebecca - she'd have both our heads." Fogg produced a faint smile. "I'm quite partial to mine, at the moment." 

Jules mirrored the smile, having been bystander to several of the Fogg versus Fogg confrontations and was daunted by the prospects of a successful stand of his own against Rebecca's formidable verbal talents. But then he sighed and covered his face with his hands. "That puts me back where I started. I can't keep her." 

"You're correct - the longer the child remains, the harder it will be to let go when the time comes." When Jules looked up at him, stunned at the absolute finality of the words, Fogg nodded. "You _will_ have to walk away from her." 

"I thought if she were nearby, I could visit her--" 

"And bring back the memories of her past every time she saw you? Surely you wouldn't be so cruel?" Then, as Jules took a breath, ready to protest in the loudest terms possible, Fogg held up a hand, forestalling the tirade. "Think, man! You're her guardian of the moment, a bridge from her past into her future. If that bridge remains intact, there's always a possibility of being drawn backward. But remove the bridge . . . and she has a better chance of being drawn only toward her future." 

The breath was released slowly, the protest dying when faced with Fogg's explanation. It resonated deep within him - he knew he'd have to walk away at some point, but there'd always been the hope that perhaps, maybe, he could still see her, have some contact with her . . . . 

Some visionary! 

"You have a recommendation?" asked Jules. 

"Yes, but as her guardian, it's up to you to decide. Understand that nothing I suggest is an attempt to preempt your rights or your authority in this regard." Fogg rose to his feet and began to pace. "I will abide by your wishes completely." 

"Thank you." The realization that Fogg was nervous almost shocked him. And gave him a moment's pause - what could the man be on the verge of suggesting? 

"We should rent rooms for the child in Paris, and hire a nursemaid," explained Fogg quickly. "Comfortable, not exclusive. She would receive utmost care, including the services of a physician and a surgeon if necessary. She would be permitted to enjoy the life owed her. Perhaps a pet?" Fogg shook his head and ran a palm across his eyes. "I don't pretend to understand it, but they seem to like kittens." 

"But . . . she'd be _alone_." 

He hadn't thought to put so much emphasis on the word - Fogg turned toward him, a quizzical look on his face, but he returned to pacing almost immediately. "There would be the nursemaid. It would only be a temporary solution, I assure you. A suitable family will be found; you'd be expected to interview and approve them, of course." 

"And if I didn't like them?" 

"Then we will find _another_." Fogg stopped and Jules saw wire-taut tension in the stillness; the man was angry. "And another, and another until your criteria have been met, the child has been placed in a suitable environment, and we are _finished_ with this." 

Mustering every ounce of dignity he had - which was difficult due to the fact that he was wearing little more than the blanket he was tying around his waist and was limping slightly from the injury he'd received from Aimee - Jules slid out of bed and marched up to Phileas. "That's all she is to you, isn't it? A problem to be solved? And that's how you solve problems - toss money at them? Get someone else to do the work, servants or Passepartout, or Rebecca." He pointed toward the door. "You've never even said her name, have you? I don't think you have. You don't even _know_ it!" 

Fogg's eyes were fixed on him, dark and unmoving, almost blank, his arms tucked behind his back. As his shout died away in the absolute silence, Jules suddenly realized his danger. This is the man who'd slammed him into a wall, suspecting him of being an assassin with plans to murder his beloved English Queen. This is the man who had methodically thrashed him within an inch of his life for just that reason. 

This was also the man who had promised to lend him two hundred francs for two weeks, with no interest or security, who'd offered him the best option he'd yet discovered for finding his foundling a safe and happy home, who'd suffered the continued disruption of his household and the indignity of an unfortunate mispronunciation of his name . . . . 

'The longer the child remains, the harder it will be to let go when the time comes--' 

How could he have _missed_ that? 

"Fogg, I--" 

Fogg leaned his face close enough for Jules to see his own contrite image reflected in the man's eyes. 

"Her name," he hissed, "is 'Aimee.'" 

"I didn't mean--" 

But Fogg had already gone, walking from the room without a backward glance. 

"Damn!" Jules raced to the door, but it was closed deliberately and firmly in his face. He placed his hand on the doorknob, ready to throw it open. 

He was wearing a blanket. 

"Damn! Damn! Damn! My clothes?" 

His shoes he found on the floor beneath a counter. Jules tossed those aside dismissively, but there was absolutely no sign of-- 

There was a tentative knock at the door. 

"What?" he barked, still whirling around, trying to find some sign of his clothing. 

The door opened a crack and Passepartout leaned inside, the movement tentative. "Jules, I am having brought your clothes." 

"Thank God!" As Passepartout stepped inside, Jules all but ripped the clothing from his grasp, throwing it to the bed. He hopped into his trousers immediately, then let the blanket fall from around his waist. 

"I am hoping you would not be minding; they were needing to be cleaned." 

"Thank you, Passepartout." Wearing trousers and being able to shrug into his shirt, Jules felt more himself. He ran a hand through his hair and smiled wanly at the valet. "I'm sorry - I didn't mean to snap at you." He lifted his suspenders into place, as Passepartout retrieved the blanket from the floor and folded it. "I have to speak to Fogg; do you know where he is?" 

"Master Fogg has been leaving already for the day. He say to have breakfasts without him." 

"Damn." This time the expletive was gentler. After picking his shoes up from the floor, Jules seated himself on the edge of the bed and hurriedly put on his stockings and shoes. "I have to speak with him." 

"I am thinking you have just been speaking with him." When Jules looked up anxiously, Passepartout added, "Very loudly." 

Jules closed his eyes and shook his head. "When am I ever going to learn to think before I open my mouth?" 

He felt Passepartout's hand on his shoulder. "I am being sure that master has asked that question himself a hundreds of time." When he opened his eyes, he saw Passepartout grinning down at him. "And if you do not mind my telling this to you, there are ladies at the tables awaiting you for breakfasts?" 

"Thank you, yes." Rising, Jules picked up his waistcoat and slipped into it, only half-aware that Passepartout was passing a brush expertly through the tangle of his hair as he completed his own waistcoat fastenings. "I suppose Rebecca heard." 

"And the little miss. She's being very worried about you. I was thinking she would be hitting master Fogg on his way out, but Miss Rebecca is keeping a hand on the back of her dresses." 

"Great." Unthinking, he automatically slipped his arms into the sleeves of the coat offered to him by Passepartout. "Thank you." 

Passepartout immediately moved to the bed and began to fix the sheets and pillows. Jules turned to leave, but paused. "How do you--how do _you_ manage to deal with Fogg?" he asked, curiously. 

There was the briefest hesitation in Passepartout's movements, but he continued to straighten the bedclothes with precise efficiency. "Master Fogg, he say what he is thinking, but not what he feel." 

Jules grinned. "Which means you have to be a mind-reader to understand him." 

"Not a reader of the minds." Passepartout patted his chest. "A reader of the hearts. And . . . am knowing to think before I am saying somethings." 

Jules chuckled and shook his head in wonderment. "He has no idea how lucky he is to have you working for him, does he?" 

"He know." Mirroring his grin, Passepartout sent his hand down the perfectly made bed with a flourish. "Besides, everybody else he would be hiring was quitting." 

"I'd imagine he'd be impossible to work for." 

"Not _so_ impossible," amended Passepartout. "He is being only . . . Master Phileas Fogg." Then Passepartout pointed to the door and said gently, "Breakfasts?" 

"Yes," agreed Jules. "I'm going. Thank you again, Passepartout, for . . . everything." Tugging down the edges of his coat and running his hand through his hair one last time, Jules headed out the door at a run. His steps slowed, however, as he approached the staircase. Exactly how he was going to explain to Rebecca how badly he'd just insulted Fogg? 

It was going to be an interesting breakfast. 

**** 

End of Chapter Seven 

**** 


	8. Chapter 8

**** 

**Chapter 8 - _In which water glasses are endangered_**

They'd heard Verne shouting with no sense to the words, simply noise. Wide-eyed, Aimee had turned to Rebecca, then made a dash for the stairs. She'd been hard-pressed to intercept the child, managing to get her away from the steps just as Phileas had appeared. He'd paused at the bottom of the stairway, glanced down at Aimee, and smiled. 

"Where's Jules?" the child had demanded. 

A sudden bitterness accented his smile and there was something in his eyes . . . but when he actually met Rebecca's gaze, it had already gone. 

"He's upstairs," Phileas said, addressing his answer not to Aimee, but to her. "I'll be gone for the day." 

He moved as if to step around the little girl. Rebecca took that moment to approach him and caught his sleeve. "And the foundling home?" 

Phileas turned his head away and licked his lips, as if there were a hundred things he wished to say . . . and yet could find no words for any of them. "Perhaps you'd best speak with Verne about that," he said sharply. "Because at the moment, I don't think I truly give a damn." 

She might have believed him, if he hadn't glanced back at the child. 

For her own part, Aimee was watching him with a mixture of suspicion and dread. "Did you hurt Jules?" she demanded, voice trembling. 

When he knelt down on one knee before her, Aimee backed up a step, right into Rebecca. His hand, half-raised to touch her cheek, dropped instantly to his side. "What would you think if I told you that I would never, intentionally hurt Ver--Jules?" he asked softly. 

"I don't believe you." 

That bitter smile returned. "Then, you're a very perceptive little girl." 

Phileas rose to his feet, avoided meeting Rebecca's eyes, then turned away. Had Rebecca not grabbed the seat of her dress, Aimee would have launched herself at his back, growling angrily. Without another word, Phileas picked up his hat, retrieved his cane and gloves, and left. 

"But he hurt Jules!" protested Aimee, fighting the hold on her dress. 

"No, darling." Planting a hand on either one of Aimee's shoulders to hold her in place, Rebecca stared after her cousin. "I suspect Phileas is the injured party, this time." 

"Miss Rebecca?" 

She nearly started, not having heard the valet enter through the kitchen. "Yes, Passepartout?" Rebecca turned Aimee toward the table and said, "Sit down, Aimee; Jules will be down in a minute." 

"That will being difficult without this clothes?" 

"Ah." She nodded, seeing Verne's apparel draped over Passepartout's arm. "Yes, you might want to deliver those to him immediately." 

Passepartout nodded, giving the exterior door a quick glance before heading up the staircase. 

For a moment, Rebecca wondered how much of the exchange Passepartout had heard. Had it been one of the servants at Shillingworth Magna, she would have been concerned, but Passepartout had risked his life with them. He was _family_. He also seemed able to keep Phileas in hand, which was more than she could say for herself lately. Social etiquette be damned - better that he know everything about every one of them. It might just save their lives some day. 

"Rebecca?" Aimee was sucking on a spoon from the table setting - at least it was keeping her busy. "Is Phileas a gentleman?" 

She paused before answering, remembering something of Verne's use of the word the day before . . . and the meaning it held for Aimee. "Jules told you that Phileas wasn't one of your gentleman, didn't he?" 

"But he hurts people." 

The spoon slipped away from the child and struck a crystal water goblet, the sudden ringing sound doing little to soothe Rebecca's jangled nerves. Reaching over, she moved anything breakable a distance from Aimee and forced a reassuring smile. "He doesn't mean to hurt people. Phileas has a tendency to tell the truth. That sometimes hurts people, although he doesn't mean it that way. It's--" She stopped, realizing the child had moved onto playing with the fork and wasn't really listening. "You'll understand when you're older." 

"When I'm older, I'm going to live in the glass house Jules drew and he's going to live with me and I'm going to be happy." 

Rebecca paused in the midst of clearing away Phileas' unused place settling, and looked at the child curiously. "Aren't you happy now?" 

"Jules doesn't make me go upstairs with the gentlemen. He makes me happy." Aimee held up the fork, studying her reflection in it. "Rebecca, how can I make Jules like me?" 

"Aimee, he _does_ like you. He's been taking care of you, hasn't he?" 

"But he doesn't want to take a bath with me or sleep with me or anything." She dropped the fork to the table, her expression serious. "I want him to be happy." 

Spotting the ragdoll on the floor, Rebecca reached down to pick it up, but took her time in doing so. She sniffed, not wanting the child to see her struggling to control her composure. When she brought the doll up to the height of table, she was wearing a false smile. "I think if you're a good girl and do what Jules tells you to do, he'll be very happy. And see, you've dropped your doll." 

"Thank you." Aimee took the doll from Rebecca, then wrapped her arms around it. "She's a pretty doll." 

"She's a very pretty doll," agreed Rebecca, thankful for the safer topic of conversation. Not certain how much longer that would last, she rose to her feet. "Perhaps I'd better see what's keeping Jules--" 

"I'm coming," Verne announced, descending the stairs at a run. 

"Jules!" Aimee leapt from her chair, the doll swinging wildly from one hand and nearly taking out a water glass - which Rebecca manage to catch before it could strike the ground. 

Prepared for her this time, Verne caught her as she leapt into his arms, although Rebecca noticed that he took care to protect himself from her flailing limbs. 

Verne hugged Aimee and carried her over to the table. When he met Rebecca's eyes, he cleared his throat. "I gather you heard - Fogg and I?" 

"Only the sound and fury," she explained. She watched as he set Aimee on her chair and then pushed the chair in toward the table, his manner very reminiscent of Phileas. He was picking something up, then. A gentleman in training? 

Passepartout hurried down the stairs. "I will be bringing breaksfast directly," he announced, not even bothering to pause on his way to the kitchen. 

"Thank you," called Rebecca. Then she set her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, staring directly across at Verne. 

"What?" he asked nervously, reaching for Aimee's napkin and tucking it into the neckline of her smock. 

"What did you say to him?" 

One of the wonderful things about Verne was his inability to hide his thoughts. His cheeks colored slightly and he wouldn't look at her. "I think I insulted him." 

"Oh, Jules." 

"It was my fault. Fogg can be so . . . brusque and I just flew off the handle." He ducked his head slightly, then looked up at her through lowered eyelids, even as Passepartout arrived with a pitcher in one hand and a serving dish balanced on the other. "I'm sorry." 

"You should apologize to Phileas, not me." 

Verne leaned back in his chair as Passepartout placed a wedge of ham and a scoop of eggs on his plate. "I would, if I could find him." 

"Philly-ass is bad," declared Aimee, peering at Verne's breakfast dish with interest. "He's a gentleman!" 

"Aimee, no! You mustn't say that." He caught the child's upper arm, shaking her slightly. "That's not true. Fogg has been very good to us. He's trying to help us. He's trying to help _you_ . . . if I'd only let him." 

Although she made no sound, the child went still, staring at Jules with wide eyes. He released his hold on her and picked up his fork, poking listlessly at his eggs without seeming to notice the impact his words had on her. 

Rebecca, however, held her breath. At the very least, she expected a burst of tears or perhaps a tantrum. Instead there was . . . nothing. It was as if the child had been switched off, like a mechanical toy. 

"Little miss would like eggs?" asked Passepartout, helpfully. 

It was as if Aimee didn't hear him, or couldn't hear him. She sat still, staring at Verne. 

Passepartout met Rebecca's eyes, his expression worried. 

"It's all right, Passepartout," said Rebecca softly. "I'll have some eggs, and a little ham, thank you." 

"Yes, Miss Rebecca." He moved behind her, spooning out the eggs, and then lifted the ham with tongs from the segregated section of the tray to her plate. "I will be getting the coffee." 

"That will be fine, Passepartout." Rebecca cleared her throat. "Jules?" 

"Hmn?" He was still chasing the eggs around the plate with his fork, obviously lost in thought. 

"Look at Aimee." 

He looked up - from his expression, he was still angry with himself - his intent probably being no more than a casual glance. But when he saw the child's face, he stopped, lowering the fork to the table automatically. 

"What's wrong with her, Jules?" 

"She doesn't cry." Their voices remained quiet, as if in mutual agreement not to startle the child. Verne lifted his hand, his fingers brushing her cheek. "It's all right, Aimee. You're a good girl." 

There was a flicker of life in the child's eyes when Verne touched her face, an instant when Rebecca thought she saw the child flinch, as if afraid of being struck but even more afraid of being seen attempting to avoid the blow. The doll-like stillness was distressingly unnatural. "What did they _do_ to her?" Rebecca asked, in a horrified whisper. 

"I'm sorry," said the child, in a small voice, so low that Rebecca could barely hear the words. "I'll be nice to Philly-ass. I promise. I'll be very nice to him. I'll make him happy, if you want." 

Tears had been gathering in Rebecca's eyes. She lifted her napkin to her lips and held it there, afraid that she might sob aloud. This wasn't the same child who had chatted breezily about the dogs she'd played with in the park, stroked the length of Rebecca's silk robe with joyful awe at the softness, or who'd bounced playfully, if unfortunately, on Verne this morning. The scars and marks on the little girl's body, the child's frustration at being unable to do for Verne what she had been told to do to make other men happy, and now _this_ . . . . 

"Please, excuse me," she murmured, napkin still pressed to her lips. Passepartout had entered with the coffee and was inadvertently blocking her access to the stairway, so Rebecca amended her plan and headed for the cabin door. Once outside, she leaned her body against the outer wall of the gondola and then turned her face to the sunshine. The air came out of her lungs in a great gasp and she struggled for a moment to regulate her breathing, knowing that if she started crying now she wouldn't be able to stop for some time. 

Verne joined her some minutes later. She half-turned away, unable to face him until she'd wiped her eyes, but he placed her wrap around her shoulders from behind. His hand rested on her shoulder and she placed her own over it. "Thank you." 

"You're welcome." Verne waited a few seconds before adding, "She's all right now. Passepartout's introduced her to an orange." Then he cleared his throat. "I think they've just added a new stain to the carpet." 

"Oh, damn the carpet," sighed Rebecca. She flung her back against the solid wood of the gondola again and looked out across the green pasture in which the Aurora was tethered. "The reality of it surprised me, I suppose. It's all so utterly normal for her. Do you know--" she turned her face to look at him, "how badly she wants to please you? The things she'd be willing to _do_ for you, because you've given her a warm bed, and meals, and attention? And then to offer - for Phileas - of all the--!" 

Verne looked startled, the color draining from his face at the import of her words. "Passepartout said he thought she was going to hit Fogg." 

"Because she'd heard the argument and suspected that he'd hurt you." Rebecca closed her eyes and shook her head momentarily to clear it. "From her point of view, what else was she to think? She heard you shouting. She'd guessed that you were alone with Phileas. I'd suspect it's his clothing that separates him from the rest of us in her mind - he dresses like her previous 'gentlemen.'" Opening her eyes, she shot a sly smile at Verne. "She was trying to protect you from Phileas. She even called him a liar when he told her that he'd never hurt you. I think it nearly broke his heart." 

"Oh," said Verne, in a small, lost voice that was more reminiscent of Aimee's than she'd care to contemplate. He glanced back over his shoulder, lost for a moment in his thoughts. Then he met her eyes again. "This morning you mentioned your mission?" 

"Oh. Yes. That." 

"You said that it might wait until tomorrow evening?" 

She watched his expression, which was guarded. "Why do you ask?" 

"Fogg told me what the foundling home would be like - they wouldn't help her there, it wouldn't be a real life. He offered to find rooms for her and a nursemaid until we could find a family willing to take her in." Verne looked away. "And then I insulted him." 

"Oh, Jules." Rebecca sighed again. "Knowing Phileas, he's wandering about knocking heads off begonias with his cane, or some other asinine thing - he's a bane to gardeners everywhere when he's in a mood. Then he'll rent the rooms, hire a nursemaid, and return here expecting we've all had plenty of time to come to our senses and agree with him completely." 

"Which would prevent you from leaving for your mission until tomorrow evening, at the earliest." 

Rebecca nodded, then met his gaze. "It can wait until then. I'll need your help with it, if you're free." 

"Of course." 

There it was, in a tone that implied that he neither wanted nor needed further details. "You have no idea what I'm going to ask you to do." 

"It doesn't matter. If you think I can help you, then I'll do it." 

Awesome, that's what it was, his complete and utter trust in her. Not unlike the complete and utter trust Aimee seemed to give him. 

She shook her head, looking away. "Why did you ask about the mission waiting until tomorrow evening?" 

"I'm not taking Aimee to the foundling home, after what Fogg told me. She'd be much better off with what he suggested. And if I have to get down on my knees to apologize to him--" 

"I hardly think that will be necessary," said Rebecca dryly, not mentioning that she would personally coldcock Phileas if he misbehaved in such a fashion. 

"The soonest he'll be able to make suitable arrangements will be this evening, or tomorrow." Verne grinned at her. "We can spend the day with Aimee." 

Rebecca hesitated. "Is she well enough? After this morning--" 

"That was my fault," admitted Verne. "I frightened her. I was too busy thinking about what an idiot I'd been not to have seen . . . ." 

"What?" she asked. 

"That - that I'd insulted Fogg." Before she could press him, he added, "You wanted to buy her a bonnet?" 

"Yes. And shoes. She mentioned that park, where you took her to play with the dogs? I'd like to go there. To the perfumery. Lunch, of course." She met his eyes. "Unless you think that's too full of a day for her?" 

"We can pace ourselves." 

Rebecca smiled at his swell of pride, at her deference to his role as the child's guardian. "And Passepartout should accompany us, I think. They get along well together, she'd enjoy his company. Such a sad little orphan." A sudden sense of dolor stole over her as she glanced through a window at the interior of the cabin, even though she knew she was too far forward to see Passepartout and Aimee. 

There but for the grace of God . . . . 

She turned to find Verne's hand outstretched, as if he were going to touch her shoulder or her arm. Caught in mid-motion the hand dropped, but he still dared a look in her eyes. "What?" 

"Oh." Perceptive little Frenchman, wasn't he? "I was just thinking how lucky we can be, sometimes." And then she cleared her throat and moved past him. He was quick to reach for the door and hold it open for her, and this time _did_ touch her arm, to stop her. 

"Lucky?" 

Peals of laughter reached them, a combination of Passepartout's chuckles and Aimee's giggling. Rebecca smiled at the sound, although it also brought the sting of tears to her eyes. "Aimee's luck at having found you. I can think of few people in the world who wouldn't have turned away in disgust and left her in the middle of Paris to fend for herself." 

His cheeks flushed with pleasure at her compliment; Verne ducked his head shyly in response. "But it's not just me. I tried to do it alone - I couldn't. It's you and Passepartout and Fogg - without you, I don't know what I would have done." 

"You would have done _well_," she told him, reaching out to give his shoulder a supportive squeeze. "This morning, you knew precisely what to do." 

"But I didn't." Verne pushed a wave of hair back from his eyes as if in frustration. "I'm guessing. I never thought I'd ever hear her laugh, until last night." Another wave of merriment sounded from the cabin and he looked away, as if entranced. The joy of it faded from his face slowly and he swallowed. "The way she turns herself off when she stiffens up, as if she expects me to strike her . . . it frightens me. She never cries. And - I think - I think that if she _did_ start to cry, she might never stop." 

He didn't understand. Of course, how could he? Verne had been raised in what she assumed to be a loving family, with two parents and siblings. He'd never known the sudden, devastating loss of the extension of self, as if an arm or a leg had been taken away. No, worse than that, because losing a limb or appendage would have created have been some physical reminder of what once was, instead of the by-now faded memories, which seemed to grow a little more distant every year. 

"Rebecca?" 

"I wouldn't worry, Jules." With a wan smile, she took his arm. "Even when Aimee does cry - and she will - it won't last forever. The tears of an orphan may seem incessant, but they do stop. Eventually." 

A slight pressure on his arm and a step forward gave him enough of a signal to escort her back into the main cabin of the Gondola. He took the hint, his expression bemused, and played the gallant. He was barely inside the door before Aimee dashed up to him, threatening the structural integrity of the ragdoll as she gestured wildly with it, trying to explain exactly what Passepartout and she had been discussing. 

It was a relief, actually. With Verne distracted, Rebecca slipped quietly over to the stairs. His admission, yesterday, of the number and gender of his siblings hadn't so much surprised her as reminded her that their friendship was still new - there was much to be learned. To tell him more about her background now would be too much information, too quickly. Better to leave such discoveries to their own time. 

Passepartout was at her elbow as soon as she reached the bottom of the staircase. "Miss Rebecca?" 

He looked concerned - when would they learn to stop treating her like she was a china doll? 

"I'm quite fine," she responded sharply, then caught her tongue. After all, if she was angry at herself for having lost control and become a sniveling ninny, there was no just reason to take out her anger on someone else, particularly Passepartout. "Thank you," she added softly, with an apologetic smile. 

"I should be preparing the lunch today?" 

"No, I think not." She glanced over at Verne, who seemed utterly absorbed in Aimee trying to repeat several words Passepartout had taught her, in a variety of languages. "Jules had an idea of spending the day shopping with Aimee. A trip to the park, perhaps, and luncheon." Rebecca turned her attention back to the valet. "We'd prefer you join us, if you'd like." 

"I would be liking this very much." His grin was so infectious, she found herself grinning back. And then his eyes widened slightly. "Will be needing a picnic basket, to be eating lunch in the park?" 

"Wonderful idea." Placing her hand on the stair railing, she took a step, and then paused. "I'll compose a note for Phileas - to let him know where we've gone. I'll tell him we're lunching in the park . . . perhaps he might meet us there?" 

Passepartout looked down at the floor for a moment, as if considering. "I am thinking that I will be leaving a cold luncheon for Master Fogg in the kitchen." He looked up at her then, his expression grim. "Just in cases." 

"That would be prudent." Her gaze moved to the sideboard and she noticed with some surprise that the decanter had been removed. "Passepartout--?" 

He followed the direction of her gaze and said, "I have been in the moving of breakable things. With the little miss--?" He shrugged as if dismissing the matter, but was watching her from beneath lowered lids as if waiting for confirmation of her approval. 

"Good thinking." Rebecca nodded, pleased to see him beam at her praise. It wouldn't stop Phileas from drinking if he got into one of his moods, but the lack of the decanter might give him pause, at least to reconsider that course of action. "There must be some solution to this," she said, realizing an instant too late that she'd spoken her words aloud. 

"Is the little girl," answered Passepartout softly, giving a slight nod toward Aimee and Jules, who were examining the steering mechanism of the Aurora. "He know she is being afraid of him. He will be staying away until she has been leaving." 

"Typical Phileas - he won't run from a fight he can't win, but will flee from a little girl at the first provocation." They shared a momentary look of commiseration, and then Rebecca sighed and proceeded up the staircase. Considering their options as she headed to her chamber to change her clothing did not improve her disposition in the least. She would attempt to sound out the exact nature of Verne's insult in as discreet a manner as possible, try to give Aimee a more positive, if biased, view of Phileas' character, and as for her cousin . . . . 

Well, the child was right in one respect - there were times when he did behave like an utter and complete Philly-ass. 

**** 

End of Chapter Eight 

**** 


	9. Chapter 9

**** 

**Chapter 9 - _In which Jules has an unfortunate encounter_**

Jules caught Aimee by the waist and held her aloft, her outstretched palm holding a piece of freshly cut apple. She giggled as the horse nuzzled her hand and then delicately took the fruit from her. As Jules lowered her to the ground, the horse followed them, the large chestnut animal continuing to huff and breathe on Aimee's head until Jules took her hand and drew her beyond the reach of the harnessed animals. 

"Can I give them another?" asked Aimee, staring at the horses in joyful amazement. 

"No, I think we're ready to go." He straightened to see Rebecca climbing up the verge to the road and Passepartout following with a tremendous picnic hamper swinging from his clasped hands. "You see?" Aimee peered around him, her face falling in disappointment. 

"Besides, you'll make the horses sick, giving them too much apple. You don't want them to be sick, do you?" Jules poked her lightly in the stomach with a finger and she laughed. "Come on, into the carriage." 

It was a large, misshapen box carriage with an ancient family coat of arms barely visible on one side. Jules opened the door and lowered the steps, but Aimee was so small that he had to lift her into the body of the carriage. Rebecca took his hand and offered a gracious, "Thank you," as he helped her inside, which pleased him no end. 

Looking around, he thought that Passepartout had vanished, then heard a noise at the back of the carriage and went to investigate. Passepartout was struggling beneath the enormous picnic hamper, trying to lift it into place. 

"One minute, Passepartout. I'll help." 

"Is not being necessary. I have almost - getting - it--" 

With a grin, Jules grabbed a handhold and swung himself up onto the roof of the carriage. As Passepartout pushed, he pulled, wrapping the leather baggage straps around the wicker monstrosity until it finally slipped into place. "There!" 

"Whew!" Passepartout swiped his sleeve across his forehead. "I should not have been packing so manys chickens," he announced. 

Jules nimbly climbed down the side of the carriage and landed at Passepartout's feet. "I heard clinking. Those wouldn't be wine bottles, would they?" 

"And maybes a touch too much wine," amended Passepartout. Then, as Jules turned to head for the open carriage door, the valet caught his arm. "Master Jules, you are maybe forgetting somethings?" 

Jules stared at him blankly, until Passepartout withdrew a small gold clip of franc notes from his vest pocket. "The money you have been borrowing from Master Fogg." 

"Oh." The two hundred francs Fogg had offered to loan him the night before. Jules sighed and shook his head. "I don't need it now, Passepartout. We're not taking Aimee to the foundling home. Hold onto it and return it to Fogg for me when we get back." 

"But we are going to be shoppings. You cannot be shoppings without moneys. Besides--" Passepartout reached out, took Jules' hand, and placed the money clip smartly onto his palm, "Master Fogg has been making you a loan. It is a deal. He will not be taking moneys for two weeks." 

The money clip was gold, with the letters 'PF' engraved upon it and, ironically, worth perhaps a hundred times the bills it contained. Jules found himself smiling at the incongruity of it, as well as the thought of the old sock sitting in the corner of his jacket pocket that held the last few coins of his savings. 

What did it matter, really? Say he spent twenty or thirty francs to buy Aimee some things - he could put the rest of the money away and return the full two hundred when Fogg expected, in two week's time. 

"All right," Jules relented, getting a large grin from Passepartout. But he carefully removed the gold money clip and handed it back to the valet. "But do me a favor and give that back to Fogg as soon as possible." 

Passepartout took the money clip, clapped him on the shoulder in answer, and then they climbed into the carriage and were off. 

The carriage driver had obviously been paid well enough to exhibit an amiable temper, for he never complained at the frequent starts and stops. In fact, the carriage often followed them at a distance as they shopped their way through the busy, fashionable streets or met them at the far end of highly trafficked and impassable lanes. Aimee seemed to share Rebecca's fascination with endless yards of brightly colored ribbon, delicate lace, or bolts of cloth of all color and description, while Jules cast desperate glances toward Passepartout in hopes of some sort of rescue. At one point he dozed off from boredom at a milliner and awakened to find himself bound to the chair by several hundred yards of bright blue ribbon, which Rebecca told him, unhelpfully, truly brought out the color in his eyes. 

The stops became routine - afterwards, he and Passepartout would struggle out to the carriage laden with boxes. The carriage driver would watch with amusement as Jules scrambled atop the flat roof of the box coach, catching the boxes and parcels tossed to him by Passepartout. Seeing Aimee watching, Jules took a risk and somersaulted from the top of the box, bowing shyly in response to the applause of Aimee and several bystanders, then coloring as he received an additional smile and a raised eyebrow from Rebecca. 

"Fool," she'd commented lightly. "You could have bashed in your skull. And then where would we be?" 

He'd nodded his agreement, but grinned at Passepartout behind her back. 

It was just that kind of day. 

Lunch was spent in the park, on a blanket spread upon the grass. Passepartout alternated between serving them, eating with them, and running after Aimee, who seemed determined to feed her portion of lunch to all manner of park wildlife including rabbits, squirrels, leashed dogs, and other children. She was wearing a round straw hat with ribbons trailing out the back that Rebecca had explained was more for Spring, than Autumn, but was too adorable to leave behind . . . or was _often_ wearing it, before the hat took flight with every passing gust, much to Aimee's delight. 

It was after having retrieved Aimee's hat from a tree that Jules returned to the blanket and dropped onto it, then rolled over on his back to look up at the sky. It was blue and cloudless and the sun seemed to warm even the chilliness of the autumn breeze. "This is perfect," he sighed. 

"Are you sure you don't want any more chicken?" asked Rebecca solicitously. 

"No! I couldn't eat another bite." Propping himself up on his elbow, Jules surveyed the wreckage of lunch and grimly noted that they'd eaten less than half the food they'd brought with them. A hamper like that could have fed him throughout the month of December, as cold as his room remained during the winter. "Did Passepartout think he was feeding an army?" 

Rebecca chuckled. "He likes to be prepared. You're known for having a hearty appetite, but he wasn't certain about Aimee. And if Phileas had decided to join us--" 

"Is he?" asked Jules, suddenly alert. He sat up and scanned the park surrounding them, but saw no sign of Fogg. 

"I very much doubt it. I left a note asking him to join us, but his business will probably keep him in the city all day." 

It was an honest, civilized excuse, and they both seemed to recognize it as such. Jules dropped back to the blanket, his fingers intertwined and his hands behind his head. "It would be wonderful to have more days like this." 

"Oh, I agree," answered Rebecca, tidying up the remains of their picnic. "The weather's perfect." 

"Not the weather. Like _this_." He gestured toward the air. "No one chasing us or trying to kill us. No leaping from buildings into moving wagons--" 

"Now, you've only had to do that once," chided Rebecca mildly. 

"And missed." 

They both laughed at that. 

"I suppose," said Rebecca, "that your classes do grow a little tiresome." 

"They're the only place I get any sleep." Jules sighed in contentment. "I could stay here forever." 

"Oh, don't say that!" 

He leaned on his elbow again and looked up at her cry of mock horror. "Why?" 

"Because it would be so incredibly _dull_, wouldn't you think?" She leaned toward him, placing her elbow on the blanket, and pointed to a uniformed man and a young woman pushing a pram as they walked along the path. "Look at them." 

"They look happy enough." 

"Hmmmn. Mister and Misses Possum, ready to bed down for the winter's hibernation." When he started to laugh, she slapped his shoulder. "Come now, I'm serious! Most of the people in the world have no idea what's going on around them. And, what's worse, they don't care! There are marvelous things, thrilling things, dangerous things out there in the world . . . and they'll never know." 

The well-equipped couple suddenly seemed incredibly mundane in his eyes. As Jules scanned the rest of the park, he began to view the inhabitants as Rebecca had described them. "You're right," he answered quietly. "No wonder the League of Darkness is able to accomplish so much - no one pays attention. If a government falls on the far side of the world and it doesn't affect the cost of bread, why should it matter to them?" 

"It shouldn't - that's how they can live their lives with some sense of normalcy and security. And that's why we do what we do, so it never has to." 

Passepartout was running toward them, Aimee close behind. Having learned from experience, Jules flipped over, curling himself into a ball. When Aimee pounced on him, they rolled off the blanket and into the grass, neither the worse for wear. Passepartout was admonishing Rebecca for not leaving the straightening up to him, but Jules only had eyes for Aimee's smile. He picked her up in his arms and whirled around until they were both dizzy. 

The hamper was a good deal lighter as Jules and Passepartout packed it onto the rear of the carriage. After Aimee was mollified by allowing her to feed the horses a few carrots, they headed back to the Aurora at a leisurely pace. Aimee was curled up on the seat beside Rebecca, drowsing lightly. Rebecca brushed her hand continuously through the child's hair and mirrored Jules' contentment with an easy smile. Even Passepartout was sitting and, for once, doing nothing, having been convinced that he belonged inside the carriage with them, instead of up with the driver or hanging off the rear footman's perch. 

Jules watched the Paris afternoon amble by through the windows of the box carriage. The dream-like quality of it never ceased to amaze him, how the squalid life of a student could be so easily transformed when his well-to-do, adventurous friends arrived. They were traveling streets not too far from his rooming house and-- 

"Rebecca! That's the perfumery!" 

Startled, Rebecca stared at him. 

"The perfumery you asked about - where I bought the scented soap Aimee liked?" 

"Oh, yes." She tapped the ceiling of the carriage imperiously, jolting Aimee into full wakefulness. "Passepartout, have the driver stop for a moment. I'd like to make a purchase." 

They'd traveled halfway down the street before the carriage driver managed to bring the horses to a safe stop. Like a captain marshaling her troops, Rebecca took charge of the expedition and marched them to the perfumery. Both he and Passepartout were stopped dead in their tracks by the smell just inside the door - Jules didn't remember it being that intense. But then, he'd arrived in the early morning when the door had been open and the shop was being aired. Now, it was if the air within the shop was itself a living thing, heavy with conflicting scents. 

The shop girl was the same one who'd served him before. Jules smiled at her but she ignored him, her full attention on Rebecca's detailed instructions. He shared a look with Passepartout, who shrugged sympathetically - so much for the memories of pretty shop girls. A casual glance past Passepartout suddenly struck him cold. 

Aimee had wandered away to examine a variety of colored glass perfume bottles. She had at least four in her arms, in addition to her doll, and was taking a fifth off the shelf when Jules spotted what she was doing. As he opened his mouth to say something, Passepartout placed a finger to his lips, warning Jules not to startle her. Passepartout mimed moving around the far side of Aimee and that Jules should openly approach her. 

They managed to rescue four of the five bottles. The fifth slipped through Passepartout's hands, splintering into fragments when it struck the floor. 

"Oh my," said Rebecca, turning at the sound of the crash. She fixed a stern gaze on both Jules and Passepartout. "Is being my fault," said Passepartout quickly. 

The shop girl sighed. "I shall clean it up directly, Mademoiselle. I'm afraid that it must be added to Mademoiselle's bill." 

"Of course, but you needn't trouble yourself," said Rebecca. Reaching over the counter, she took the broom from the girl and held it out for Passepartout. "We've made the mess and we shall clean it up. Yes, Passepartout?" 

Accepting the broom from her, Passepartout managed a weak smile. "Yes, Miss Rebecca." 

Jules cleared his throat and took hold of Aimee's hand, intercepting her before she could head back to the shelf of bottles. "I think it would be safer if we waited in the carriage." 

"We'll only be a few minutes," promised Rebecca. 

The last sounds they heard from the shop were the crackle of paper as the girl wrapped Rebecca's packages, and the soft sweeping of the broom. Jules took a huge breath of air as soon as they were outside, relieved to be free of the over-scented shop. 

"Was Passepartout bad?" asked Aimee, her hand clasped in his as she skipped along beside him. 

Jules glanced down at her, realized that she didn't understand her own culpability in the matter, and shook his head. "No, it was an accident." 

The stalls lining the streets were doing a brisk trade this afternoon, the weather having brought both the buyers and sellers outside. It took a few seconds for the smell of the perfumery to clear his nostrils, but he quickly found that replaced by the enticing aroma of freshly baked bread. Despite the fact that he'd stuffed himself at lunch, he found his mouth watering. 

Aimee jerked away from him suddenly, crying, "My doll!" 

He lost her for a heartbeat in the busy street then saw her no more than ten paces away, chasing a scruffy boy who looked little older than herself. Jules pushed his way through the crowd without hesitation, calling, "Wait! Aimee! Stop!" 

The children dashed in and out of the shoppers as if it were a game, ducking under the corners of carts, and through the most impossibly small spaces between passing pedestrians. Aimee may have been small and thin, but she was fast, although not quite as fast as the boy. They passed the coach and kept going, turning at the corner onto another boulevard. 

By the time Jules had arrived at the corner he had lost them in the crowd. An object went airborne - her hat! - and tracking it back by sight he saw her duck down an alley. There were muttered oaths, accusations about his lack of legal parentage, and outraged squeals, as he became socially agnostic, trampling the aristocrat, the bourgeoisie, and the underclass in his haste to reach Aimee. He ran into the alley. 

She wasn't there. Washing hung from lines high above and there was trash strewn along the edges of the stone walls. He walked the length of it and took the first turning down another passageway. They were little more than walkways between buildings, sometimes widening for the width of two men walking abreast, but more often than not barely the width of one man alone. The sky seemed distant and far away and the shadows too deep and close for his liking. As much as his nostrils had been assailed by the strength of the scents in the perfumery, he wished them back in place of the stench of refuse and urine that lingered there, even with the cool weather. 

Jules didn't know Paris as he knew Nantes - he had no idea of his location. The inset building tiles that had once held street names had been chopped free or scraped clean, the better to confuse the gendarmes chasing a thief or looking for the lodging of a petty criminal. It had taken no more than eight turns to have passed from the bustling commercial street to this sewer of a back alley. Shutters were closed and doors barred more often than not and this at the height of the afternoon. Only at night would there be any life to this place, where shadows could hide the poorest passions and the greatest depravity. 

It made him want to retch. 

A terrified sob, followed by his name . . . the scream echoed throughout the maze of stone buildings. His steps quickened again. "Aimee!" Jules cried, repeating the call two or three times at the very top of his lungs. 

He never saw the punch coming, the force of the blow in his gut nearly doubling him over. Before Jules could straighten himself, a fist slammed into his face, hard enough to knock him against the alley wall behind him. The vague memory of Phileas warning him not to lead with his chin echoed in his head. Instead of trying to straighten up, he ducked, and heard the satisfying crunch of a fist slamming full tilt into the brick wall where he'd been the moment before. 

This time he identified Aimee's screams, which were now continuous - to his left. He turned his head and saw her being held by the old man who'd tried to sell her to him . . . Dondre. He had one hand wrapped in her hair and the other around the girl's chest, holding her high enough from the ground that her feet dangled. 

A shadow fell over Jules - his attacker. The man had at least six inches on him in both height and width. Jules tried to duck away, but this time the brute was ready, catching his shoulder and slamming Jules into the wall. He was turned and gut punched again. 

At some point he slid down the wall. His legs had stopped trying to hold him up long ago, but the force of the blows had kept him erect. When they were gone, gravity took hold. What existed of the world was shadow or red. Throughout it all, Aimee continued to scream his name and to cry. 

She was crying. 

A boot the size of a hansom cab collided with his chest, resulting in a 'crack' that took his breath away. Curling up instinctively despite the pain in his chest, he tried to protect himself from the relentless attack of that boot and managed somewhat. He didn't know whether the thug had stopped pummeling him or whether he'd lost all feeling in his knees and legs. Taking a breath through his nose was impossible - the air was wet and bloody. Taking a breath through his mouth was like falling face first onto a steel spike. 

A hand touched his face, his chin roughly jerked upwards to get his attention as other hands patted their way through his clothes and pockets. The money Fogg had lent him was retrieved and he heard the jingle of the coins in the sock as well. 

"So," said the old man's voice, "you made good with my girl. Little wonder, the way you've got her all cleaned up. Was wondering why she wasn't the draw no more. You ruined her - she's a weeper now. But there's them that likes the weepers, and they like 'em clean. So I owe ya for that." 

Jules fought to focus on the face and saw the heel of a boot hovering directly over him. "Should I finish him?" 

Aimee was still crying. 

He asked God to make them take her away from here before they killed him. 

"No," said Dondre, and the heel lowered. Jules could see the old man now, not so old as dirty and unkempt, he realized dimly. "He did me a favor cleaning the girl up. Between the money on him and the clothes on her, we'll do well for a bit. Leave him. Maybe it'll teach him not to be takin' another man's property." 

"Jules!" screamed Aimee, as if her heart were breaking. "Jules!" 

He wasn't certain whether it was the echo or memory, but he continued to hear her screams. The sounds kept him awake and he tried to stay that way, but the blackness kept closing in on the edges of his vision, accented by the tiniest sparks of light flitting in and out like fireflies. Pain wasn't identified with any particular part or organ, but as a state of being, a dull numbness. 

He hurt. It felt worse than when Fogg has worked him over. Not that Fogg didn't know how to inflict pain, he just knew something about instilling fear. No matter what he did to you, the look on his face always told you there was worse on the way. 

Jules wanted to laugh - here he'd been beaten to a pulp, was trying to stay awake, and all he could manage was to compare the methods of the unimaginative thug that had thrashed him with Fogg's own brutally efficient process of reducing a man to a quivering mess. That was him, all right, visionary and wunderkind extraordinaire. 

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. 

He tried to move his hand and found it was shaking. A wave of pain ran through him as he took a breath and then it radiated outward to every part of his body. A scream erupted and died deep within his throat, emitted as no more than a gurgle. 

Find me. 

Find me before I die. 

"Here he - Good God! Passepartout, go for a surgeon." 

"But Miss Rebecca, I am not knowing where to--" A brief pause. "I bring one. And I get the Aurora." 

"Go man. Go!" 

Jules was certain his eyes were open, but he couldn't see her; there was too much red, too many shadows. 

"Reb-ba-ba--" 

Her fingers were soft on his cheek and her voice whispered, "Sssh," in his ear. 

It was harder to hold on. His body felt cold and he started to shiver. The pain in his chest flared and spidered through him again, but he could also feel her hands on him, holding him. 

"D-d-d-die?" Jules asked. 

"No." Her lips brushed his ear. "You're not going to die. We won't let you." 

"G-g-g-o-o-d." 

And the pain settled into darkness, at least for a little while. 

**** 

End of Chapter Nine 

**** 


	10. Chapter 10

**** 

**Chapter 10 - _In which information is sought_**

The waiting proved interminable. 

It was still afternoon, yet the back alley in which she'd discovered Verne was thick with shadows. Thankfully, it was bereft of even the most curious of onlookers, with the exception of two brazen rats that she was able to chase away with the some deftly thrown refuse. 

Rebecca's first instinct was to sit down and take him into her lap, but the return of the rats and the possibility that his assailants might not have been completely finished with him made her give up that idea immediately - that position was hardly defensible. And here she was dressed for a day out, without anything more lethal than a hatpin on her person! 

Well, there were still the brass knuckles in her reticule . . . . 

She removed her jacket, flipped it inside out, and folded it into a pad beneath his head. His breathing was more regular than not and the blood on his face appeared to be the result of a cut on his lip and possibly his nose. It didn't look broken - no sign of the purplish bruising that entailed. 

There was, of course, no sign of the child. 

Rebecca paced and listened to the echo of her heels on the dirty cobblestones. If Verne moved or moaned, she went to him instantly, but even though she called his name or touched his cheek, he remained insensate. She had straightened his limbs, carefully rolled him onto his back, and used her spittle on a handkerchief to wipe the dried blood from his lips and his nose . . . what more was there to do? 

It was while she was tending to Verne that she heard the echo of approaching footsteps, but couldn't discern a direction. Eyes keen, she stepped back into the shadows, her fingers digging blindly into her reticule for the added weight of the weapon. 

The footsteps, more than one set, resolved themselves into two shadowy figures - which turned out to be Passepartout and another man. The valet was in the lead, urging his companion to greater haste. 

The man was too well dressed for an afternoon walk along the boulevard. His top hat was definitely formal, his clothing black as midnight and with barely a crease - only the immaculate black bag he carried seemed to give any hint of his profession. Rebecca stepped forward with no small amount of respect, not knowing whom she might be dealing with. "Monsieur?" 

"Miss Fogg? I am Dr. Picot." He gave a stiff, almost formal bow. "Your man-servant said there had been a beating, that someone was badly injured?" 

"Yes." Rebecca drew aside, suddenly realizing that she'd been blocking the doctor's view of Verne. There was no reason to chide herself for the action - she'd no idea of who might be approaching. But still . . . . "He was attacked." 

Dr. Picot glanced down at Verne, then approached him slowly. "So this man - Passepartout?" The doctor gave Rebecca a questioning look and, after the name was confirmed, nodded toward the valet. "So Passepartout said. Or, I believe was attempting to say. You might convince him there are less dangerous means of getting a man's attention than grabbing hold of a carriage door while it is in motion and raving like a madman." 

Rebecca backed away, catching Passepartout's wrist. "Where did you find him?" she hissed quietly. 

"As he says - he was driven in a carriage. His luggage was having a medical doctor sign, in silver." When she stared at him, he drew a series of swirls and lines in the air with his finger. "The two snakes and the stick with the leaves." 

"A caduceus?" 

"Yes. A cacaduceus," agreed Passepartout. "But I was running the one way and the horses were going the other way and I see but not see until I am almost passing the street and then I turn--" 

Keeping her eyes on the doctor, who seemed to be giving Verne a cursory examination, Rebecca managed a slight cough of astonishment. "You chased down a carriage? And caught it? On _foot_?" 

"It was not so very fast a carriage," admitted Passepartout. "And I was in hanging from the door for only a minute. The doctor was being kind enough to be stopping very quickly." 

Dr. Picot was kneeling beside Verne, seemingly oblivious to the trash that surrounded them or the dirty paving stones beneath his trouserleg. Rebecca moved closer and he said sharply, "Mademoiselle, the light!" 

"I beg your pardon," she murmured, and backed away quickly. 

He seemed cautious in his movements, turning Verne's head slightly, leaning close to listen to his breathing, unbuttoning the vest and shirt and touching the writer's chest lightly with two fingers. It was to all but the last that Verne remained oblivious. A touch upon the lower right side of his chest induced a moan, a sudden intake of breath, and an attempt to move away. 

The movement drew Rebecca nearer. When the doctor looked up at her, she started, realizing that she might be blocking his light again. But Dr. Picot crooked a finger and motioned her toward him. "Your brother?" he asked softly. 

"No, a friend. A . . . a family friend," she amended, with just enough hesitation to cause the doctor to smile and nod knowingly. 

"Your friend is lucky - there is no blood or froth when he breathes, which means the injury to the rib did not puncture the lung. If he is very lucky, it is merely cracked and not broken, but it is surely more than a bruise." Rising to his feet, Dr. Picot dusted off his hands and faced her. "He must be transferred to a place where I can examine his other injuries." 

Before she could move, Passepartout was beside her, whispering softly, "I was instructing the carriage driver to tell Master Fogg what had been happening. If he was being aboard when the driver came, we will be seeing him soon." 

"By carriage?" When Passepartout motioned upward with his finger, Rebecca couldn't help but stare. "Do you think that's wise? I know Phileas can be trusted to steer and occasionally navigate the Aurora on his own, but--" 

"We have been running out of ports for these bad weathers," replied Passepartout gravely. "I was being busy finding a doctors . . . ." 

"And chasing carriages," noted Rebecca wryly. She touched his arm to let him know that she held him no grudge for his decision and gave him a wan smile. "But however will he find us? This section of Paris looks like a maze from the air. Surely he won't be able to see a thing?" 

Passepartout's grin was welcome, if surprising under the circumstances. "You will be leaving that to me, Miss Rebecca." Before she could stop him, he dashed out of the alley and into the maze of streets, presumably heading toward the boulevard. 

Suddenly realizing that Dr. Picot was watching her with an intently amused air, Rebecca felt self-conscious enough to touch the back of her hair slightly as if to hide the issue of it having been mussed. "Transportation . . . is being arranged." 

The statement was weakly announced at best. Wholly unlike her and yet managing something more substantial, like a true explanation of who they were and what they were doing, seemed beyond her reach at the moment. Taking a step closer to where Verne lay, she added, "Your fee will be accorded in full, of course." 

Those words seemed even more formal and horribly inept. When had she lost the power of coherent conversation? She was about to try again when a groan from Verne brought her back to the matter at hand. 

"Oh, Jules," she said softly, seeing the nascent bruises appearing on his face and his chest, where the doctor had opened his shirt. 

Dr. Picot stepped up beside her. "The payment was never in doubt, Mademoiselle." His voice was kind and he touched her upper arm briefly with the tip of his fingers to gain her attention - not an impudent touch, although confident - and gestured down the alley. "Your friend would have done better to relinquish his purse than to tangle with these ruffians. I take it he is not a fighter? He does not visit such places often?" 

"No, not at all." Her attention went back to Verne. Noticing that his head was slipping from her jacket, she leaned down to adjust it as best she could, battering down her billowing skirts as she moved. "He's a student. An artist. A writer. A . . . dreamer." 

"Indeed." 

There was just enough casual amusement in the doctor's tone to set her blood boiling. Rebecca looked up at him sharply. "And they weren't after his purse - they were after a child, one he'd rescued from the streets a few days ago. He was trying to find a proper home for her." 

"And the child is--?" 

"Gone," Rebecca whispered, still not wanting to accept what that word might entail. 

"The gendarmes--?" But when she looked up at him with pursed lips, he sighed. Removing his hat to scratch at his head, which was nearly bald in the back, he nodded sadly. "They would not expend effort to find such a child, yes. You are right. It is a shame that nothing can be done." 

"I did not say that, Monsieur," said Rebecca. She began to rise, then accepted the doctor's gracious offer of a hand more out of form than necessity. "Something can and will be done, quite soon." 

He watched her again, his eyes intent upon her own. "I confess, Mademoiselle, that I do not understand." 

"You will, when you make the acquaintance of my cousin." 

There was no chance for him to further investigate her cryptic reply - for which Rebecca was just as thankful - because Passepartout came around the corner at a run, huffing and puffing. "The - Aurora - she - is -" 

"Take a breath, man," said Rebecca. "What are you--?" 

"Matches!" demanded Passepartout, pointing toward her reticule. 

Not entirely certain how he knew she carried the small box of safety matches - one never knew when one was going to need to light a stick of dynamite - Rebecca fished them from her reticule. She tried to put them into Passepartout's hand, but he was pulling from the inside of his coat what looked to be . . . a stick of dynamite. 

Eyes widening, Rebecca took a step back. "Surely our situation isn't _that_ desperate?" 

"To be signaling - Master Fogg," explained Passepartout, stiff huffing. He leaned down and planted the explosive on the ground, the fuse trailing behind it. It seemed to have some sort of wire tripod base so that it stood erect, pointing toward the sky between the tenement walls. "You will be lighting this, please." 

Realizing that he was still trying to catch his breath and was in as much danger of blowing out the fuse as lighting it, Rebecca opened the small box and struck one of the matches against its side and then the fuse. The fire hissed at the wick immediately and Passepartout caught her arm, pushing her back toward Verne and Dr. Picot. The doctor, for his own part, seemed fascinated. 

"Very clever," he noted, with no small amount of approval, before returning to Verne's side. 

"I had seen when we were in the shopping today," said Passepartout, watching the lit fuse intently, as if fearing it might go out. "Even in the days light, Master Fogg will be seeing this." "If it doesn't burn a hole in the Aurora and blow him to kingdom come." When Passepartout shot a worried look at her, she gave him a supportive smile. "I'm joking. That thing won't reach anywhere near--" 

A whistle, a pop, and a bang drowned out the end of her sentence. Light shot from the explosive in three short bursts before the container tipped over on its side and seemed to crumple in upon itself. Three bursts of color appeared in the sky over their heads, washed out by the daylight, but still visible. 

There was silence for a moment. Rebecca shook her head, as much to clear the burst of sound from her ears as in amazement. "I want a half dozen of those, Passepartout. No, best make it a dozen. Although Phileas would probably forbid me bringing them aboard the Aurora. You might have to ship them directly to Shillingworth Magna." 

"Yes, Miss Rebecca," said Passepartout, pointing upward, "but I am hearing--" 

The slight chuf-chuf of the Aurora's propellers was distinctly audible in the stillness following the explosive demonstration. Its shadow fell over the alley, so that what little light that had reached the paving stones was dimmed. 

Rebecca found this darkness a welcome relief. Even as the lift began to descend, she turned toward Dr. Picot and noticed a look of apprehension on his face as he knelt beside Verne. "It's perfectly safe," she assured him. "Passepartout will take you and Jules up directly." 

"But, Miss Rebecca--" 

Lowering her voice, she shifted closer to Passepartout and whispered, "The doctor looks worried. I'd rather not give him a reason to bolt at the moment." When he hesitated, she gave him what passed for a reassuring smile, at least under these circumstances. "You can't be worrying about my safety?" 

"If you are staying here, no. But if you are going there--" Passepartout gestured down one of the now darkened alleys. 

There were signs of life now, no doubt brought out by the explosion and the sudden cessation of daylight in late afternoon due to the Aurora's presence. They hung back - a few men, a woman or two among the crowd - not entirely certain they weren't under attack, but keeping their distance just the same. There were indignant murmurs, fearful whispers, wide eyes and angry scowls. Who knew if Verne's attackers were among them? 

For the moment, Rebecca found she hated every one of them. She could, quite cheerfully, have broken every man there in half until she'd gotten the answers she wanted. For the moment, all she knew was that Aimee had been taken into the depths of one of those festering sores of a Paris slum. 

"If you try on your own, you will not be finding the littles girl," said Passepartout softly. 

She found herself in sudden sympathy with Phileas, who often assumed a slightly annoyed and puzzled look when his valet managed to pluck his private thoughts seemingly from the air and addressed them aloud. Then, just as now, Passepartout merely met one's gaze with a steady, resigned look that surpassed all understanding. 

It occurred to her that he was entirely unconscious of having performed these tricks of mental prestidigitation. Even if she brought it to his attention, she doubted he would be able to explain how he knew them so well, after so brief a period in their company. The added thought that it might not have taken must effort on his part was disturbing. 

Dear Lord, were they really _that_ transparent? 

"You're right," she agreed, "but I'd still rather you took Verne and the doctor aloft before me than risk the four of us on the lift at the same time." Passepartout nodded, but continued to watch her, as if measuring how much he could trust her response. Annoyed, she added, "Come now, you know I'm not about to do anything foolishly rash. As least not to the level of which Phileas is capable." 

"Oh no, not like master. When you have anger, you burn hot. Master burns cold." Passepartout favored her with a tight smile. "I am thinking, Miss Rebecca, that those men who have been beating up Jules and have been taking the little miss will be wishing they had not been birthed." 

"Damned straight," she replied, through gritted teeth. And a glance over her shoulder at Verne - still lying in the street - was more than a compelling reason to ignore the half-promise she'd just made to Passepartout and slink out into these darkened alleys on her own vendetta. 

For the moment, there were other matters to consider. Rebecca moved automatically to Verne's head, with Passepartout positioning himself at Verne's knees, both intending to carry her friend to the lift platform . . . but Dr. Picot caught her arm. 

"Pardon, Mademoiselle," he said firmly, "but if you would take my bag--?" 

Rebecca stared at the leather medical bag he held out to her, not knowing whether to be annoyed or amused. Before she could frame a suitable answer, Dr. Picot took her palm and pressed the handle of the bag into it. "There is the cracked rib - I should not want to have it break and puncture the lung as we carry your young man to safety, not after he has been this lucky. In these matters, I think I know best." 

Taking the hint, she demurely backed away, watching as Dr. Picot instructed Passepartout on how to properly move Verne. The men counted together as they lifted him - she thought she heard a groan from Verne, but couldn't be entirely sure. Rebecca shadowed their steps, staying close but keeping alert to the presences in the alleys that bordered on their location. She nearly laughed aloud, suddenly realizing that she was unconsciously covering their backs. 

Well, of course. They were in hostile territory, after all. 

The doctor was precise about the placement of Verne on the platform. Only when he was satisfied did he nod to Passepartout to signal for the ascent. It was as she placed his medical bag at his feet that she saw his white-knuckled grip on the lift cables. 

"It _is_ perfectly safe?" Dr. Picot asked, his question an echo of her earlier assurance. 

Rebecca smiled. "As you say." 

The smile faded as she stepped backward, the lift lurching slightly as it began to rise. Verne's face was level with her own for a moment - there was a nasty bruise on his right cheek. The thought occurred to her that this time he hadn't been fast enough in turning it. And there was something else, something the doctor had just said . . . . 

_Her_ young man. 

She called upward, toward the ascending lift. "He's not my young man." 

The doctor leaned slightly to one side, as if unable to hear her. "Pardon?" 

"He's _not_ my young man!" she called again. 

He was too far away to see clearly, but she could have sworn the doctor smiled at her. "As you say, Mademoiselle," he called back. "As you say." 

Again, Rebecca wasn't certain whether to be angered or amused by this odd French doctor. He dressed like an aristocrat, treated Verne as carefully as she guessed he might treat a member of his own family, remained unflappable in the face of explosives, and yet seemed to have a substantial, if conquerable, fear of heights. Trust Passepartout to have found the only doctor in Paris who actually might be able to _help_ them. 

He might even be able to withstand an hour of two of Phileas' well-meaning, but interfering, presence. 

Which brought to mind another point - whether she _should_ take matters into her own hands and begin the search for Aimee. She wasn't dressed for it, nor armed properly, but either one of those reasons could be easily dismissed. It was the third factor that kept her from wandering down a side alley while the lift was ascending; no matter how many questions she wanted answered, there was someone who could match all of them and add yet one more - how could she have let this happen? 

What the hell was she going to tell Phileas? 

She took a moment to investigate the area, trying to recreate the fight in her head, then amended the description. It had been less a fight than a beating. There was a smear of fresh blood on the wall at about Verne's height, perhaps a scrape of flesh . . . and she smiled to herself, realizing that he'd known enough to duck at least once. There hadn't been much area covered, but a beating wouldn't require that; no real effort to pinning a man against a wall and showering blow after blow upon him until he could no longer keep his feet. 

There were unclear footprints, enormous boot heels and toes, half circles in the grime and muck. So, his attacker was large; easy enough to deduce from the scrape of knuckles that high up on the wall. A short distance away were smaller prints, mixing with a print that could have come from a patched sole. The barest scrap of colored ribbon brought a lump to her throat - she couldn't bring herself to reach down to collect it. What would be the point, after all? Just a hair ribbon for a rag doll, of no real consequence. 

At least Aimee still had the doll. 

Rebecca stood for a moment and stared down the alley - it branched at the far end into another street. There would be no way to track the child on foot. Perhaps in a day or so, if they watched the ragshops - for surely her clothing, bonnet and shoes would be sold and replaced with poorer fare. There might be a chance of finding the men, for there had been at least two who had taken Aimee from them, by speaking with the shop owners, leaving a description of the clothing for a reward . . . . 

They did not have a day or so. She had to leave tomorrow night for Spain, at the very latest, and now she would need the Aurora to get there. 

Growling beneath her breath in lieu of a scream of frustration, Rebecca flung her arm recklessly; her reticule swung out and clanged against the hard brick of the wall. The sound didn't quite echo, but there was an increase in the murmurs from the shadowed doorways and alley entrances. 

She whirled in place before they could duck back and called, "Did anyone see who attacked this man? I'll give fifty francs for any information." 

The offer of money usually drew them out of hiding - even the ones who knew nothing but hoped to make off with the money - but her words, and the amount offered, were enough to let them know a serious crime had been committed. First the men, and then the women, slunk back into their homes, or taverns, or rooming houses, or whatever they called these little slices of hell. If they knew who was responsible, they feared the attackers more than they coveted the fifty francs. 

The question was, could she manage to make them fear _her_ even more than the attackers? 

The lift had been returning. Rather than wait for it to reach the ground, Rebecca grasped the cables and hauled herself upward, rolling onto the platform. Dignity was the least of her concerns and she ignored the sound of her skirt hem catching a sharp edge and tearing. She tugged the cable to let them know she was ready to ascend, then positioned herself to get the best view possible of where they had been and what it looked like from the air. There was enough to see - too much to memorize at a glance, but she believed she could direct Passepartout to this location in utter darkness. 

And it _would_ be utter darkness, because it had to be tonight. This could not be left until her return. Nor did she dare contemplate what would happen if she and Passepartout took the Aurora to Spain and left Phileas here to find the child on his own. He would, of course, eventually find the ruffians that had attacked Verne - she had no doubt of that - but there was collateral damage to consider. Common talk that a well-dressed gentleman was making violent inquiries would make possession of the child an asset. If the child was thought to be of worth, she would be hidden. 

Fifty francs. 

She'd been a fool. 

Phileas was waiting for her, offering her a wordless and gallant hand out of the lift dock. His expression was grim, although he seemed to hold no ill will toward her. He opened his lips once as if to speak, hesitated, then said, "I believe Verne's deficiencies in the matter of self-defense need to be addressed as soon as possible. Wouldn't you agree?" 

It was meant to make her smile and she did so, touching his arm as she passed by him to let him know that she appreciated the attempt. "He _did_ duck once." 

"Did he? Capital." Phileas was close behind her, catching her on the stairway by placing his arm before her so that she was effectively trapped. "The doctor is tending to him, so we have a minute. What do we know?" 

"That Jules was attacked in one of the city's seediest districts." She paused, watching the slightest flicker of Phileas' eyes for disappointment - it was like being held accountable for lessons by a schoolmaster. "That's it. The rest is supposition. I believe that he and Aimee were specifically lured away from the boulevard." 

"With regard to theft, Verne would be a victim of opportunity, not choice. And even if these were child-strippers by trade, they'd have removed her finery and released Aimee no more than an alley or two away. She was the target. That he happened to be close enough to follow her was damned bad luck." 

"Bad luck?" She swallowed in anger at the cool calculation of his words, remembering what she'd seen of the bruises on Verne. "When I reached him, he thought he was dying." 

"If he hadn't been beaten, there would be four of us to find the child, instead of three," answered Phileas, in the same cold, capable tone. When she pushed against his arm angrily, he tightened his grip on the railing and moved his other arm to draw her closer. His voice whispered in her ear, "We _will_ find her; I give you my word on that. Tonight, if at all possible. But we deal with this as a mission, action based on logic. No recriminations, no guilt, no emotion until after the fact, until it's _done_ . . . one way or another. Agreed?" 

A chill traveled her spine at his words, but whether it was caused by the content of his speech or his breath on her ear, she couldn't say. For a moment Rebecca suspected that her knees were no longer going to hold and she was almost grateful for the supportive pressure of his arm against her waist. 

It made sense. The relief in not having to immediately discuss what had gone wrong and who might be at fault overwhelmed her and freed her at the same time. What was there to do but agree? 

"Yes," Rebecca answered, a bit more breathlessly than she'd expected. And then frowning at her own apparent weakness, looked away from his eyes. "We need Jules. We need what he knows. Much as I hate to do it, we'll have to bring him around." 

"Your Dr. Picot has already insisted on that, says he can't complete his examination without assuring himself there are no other injuries." Phileas' left arm dropped away, no longer blocking her path or supporting her waist - she felt a sudden loss at that. "Where did you find this man?" 

"He's not _my_ doctor," she explained, heading up the stairs. "Passepartout fetched him. He chased the man's carriage through the streets, then hung off the door until it stopped." 

"The devil you say! Chased the carriage through the streets? If this had happened in London, I'd have been hard-pressed to face the members of my club for at least a week. I'll have a talk with him about such nonsense - a valet chasing carriages through the streets of Paris!" 

But there was a note of pride to his tone, for all of his disgruntled commentary. And Rebecca smiled softly to herself, with the thought that this part of the adventure was the stuff of legend. Poor Passepartout would suffer recounting of his carriage-chasing for some time to come. 

She sobered as she reached the door to Verne's room, raised her hand . . . then found she couldn't knock. As if pretending that she hadn't made the attempt, Phileas knocked once and opened the door a crack, peering around the door. 

"Doctor?" 

"Yes, Monsieur Fogg. I've finished for the moment. You may enter, now," said Dr. Picot, an absent note to his voice, as if his attention were elsewhere. "And Mademoiselle Fogg as well, if she's with you." 

Rebecca had found few things as spiritually disheartening as entering the sick room of a friend or family member who was normally an energetic and well-natured being; a pallid face, listless or trembling hands, and the smell of medicine stirred conflicting emotions within her. Illness was no foe to be physically conquered with fists or bullets or edged weapons and so she felt helpless and at a loss. To be honest, she believed nurturing was not one of her stronger traits and the temptation to flee after a few minutes was almost overwhelming. 

Except, of course, when she was on a mission and needed information. 

Verne was lying in bed, a blanket drawn nearly up to his neck. Passepartout hovered to the right, holding a tray upon which were such items as bandage, small scissors, and a few tiny bottles with stoppers. To the left of the bed, Dr. Picot had set his medical bag, in which he now seemed to be rummaging. 

"How is he?" she asked, her voice softened by the respectful silence. 

"He will recover, Mademoiselle Fogg, with time and care. He is young." Replacing an instrument in his bag, Dr. Picot finally straightened and found himself faced with Phileas. "Monsieur Fogg, we were not properly introduced, with the necessity of moving this young man to safer quarters. I am Dr. Raymond Picot, in service to his majesty, Napoleon III." 

The slight bow and heel click helped Rebecca cover her own surprise - she glanced quickly at Passepartout, whose eyes were like saucers. In response, he gave a slight shrug of wonderment. 

"Phileas Fogg," followed by an equally graceful bow, "at your service and in your debt, for assisting my friend, Monsieur Verne. May I offer my wishes for the best of health for his majesty?" 

"He is well, Monsieur. I will pass along your regards." 

Rebecca tried not to smile - it never ceased to astound her how Phileas could fall so easily and elegantly into diplomatic formality. 

"Thank you. You are a physician, sir?" 

"Physician _and_ surgeon, Monsieur," said the doctor, with something of twinkle in his eye. "We French are beginning to adopt the new term of which you English are so fond - the 'general practitioner'?" And then he nodded ruefully, "Although my current responsibilities include nothing more life threatening than a severe bout of indigestion. This--" he gestured at Verne, "was a welcome reminder of my true calling. I must thank your man for stopping my carriage." 

Phileas cleared his throat and shot a sharp look at Passepartout. "I apologize if the approach of my valet was untoward--" 

"Think nothing of it, sir. In fact," he took a watch from his vest pocket and consulted it, "I should like to be of further assistance to you, if I may. But I would like to notify Madame Picot that I am well and shall miss supper. I did leave my carriage driver rather abruptly - he is probably still awaiting my return in the boulevard." 

"Of course. See to it, Passepartout, if you would." 

"Yes, master." There was barely a flick of Phileas' hand toward his valet, and Passepartout was out the door. 

The spot vacated, Rebecca moved to the far side of the bed and picked up the tray Passepartout had discarded. She placed it carefully on the nightstand. Her hand was close enough to brush Verne's shoulder and she did so, her fingertips finding his skin not uncommonly warm. That was a reassuring sign - a lack of fever. 

"When will he awaken?" she asked, looking up at Dr. Picot. "We have some questions that need to be answered." 

Rebecca almost missed it, the curious expression on Phileas' face - she hadn't realized he'd been watching her. But he turned away on the instant, busying himself with his own watch as if absolutely needing to determine the exact time. 

"We can bring him around to wakefulness at any time," said Dr. Picot. "I think it better for him to rest naturally, but with the pain, it will be necessary to give him a soporific. Before that - Monsieur Fogg, if you would allow me to show you something?" Dr. Picot turned a sympathetic smile toward Rebecca. "Mademoiselle Fogg, I beg your momentary indulgence, if you would turn?" 

Rebecca stared at him blankly for a moment, then realized that his hand was on the blanket and that he meant to uncover some part of Verne. Gathering from his naked shoulder and the outlines of the sheet that her friend truly _was_ in a state of undress, she was about to turn when it occurred to her that the request was absolutely and utterly absurd. 

In fact, she was well on her way to airing that view when she caught Phileas' gaze . . . and realized this was not, perhaps, the best time to fight this particular battle. 

She turned away. 

"You see the bruises?" asked Dr. Picot, as Phileas muttered his assent. "The knuckle marks are almost distinct. Your fist - there, the man who struck him had hands much larger than your own. And the bruises are well placed, never upon one another. The exercise was to inflict pain, but not cause permanent damage. A man with this power could have killed your friend easily, yet he did not." 

"A pugilist?" Phileas' voice held a small note of wonder. 

"The bruise is the marker of the man. Find the boxer who made that mark and you will have your attacker." Dr. Picot cleared his throat. "You may turn now, Mademoiselle." 

Rebecca had been listening intently, while staring at a framed map on the wall. "Would it be possible," she asked, turning back toward them, "to photograph an injury and then match the hand of the man who had made it?" 

Phileas looked down for a moment and coughed into his hand. "Rebecca, I hardly think that Verne would appreciate having a photographer hauled into his sickroom to take pictures of his--" 

"No, Mademoiselle is correct," said Dr. Picot, a touch of admiration in his voice. "I serve on many boards, one of them advising the ministry of justice as to the investigation of criminal activity. Photographs are used to identify the unknown dead pulled from the Seine, or found beaten in alleyways, like your friend here. The matter of using photographs to match a criminal to a crime has been much discussed of late." 

"Do you think it would be of any use?" she asked, pointedly ignoring Phileas. 

"In this case?" Dr. Picot stroked his chin and then shrugged. "On a living body, bruises heal. And then only if there are suspects . . . no, I do not think it would be of an advantage now. But in the matter of the child, should any bodies be found, to identify a photograph is far easier--" 

If he said anything after that, Rebecca didn't hear the words. She looked instantly at Phileas and found his gaze already on her. As much as he had cautioned emotionless detachment on the stairs, his eyes were hard and cold in their ferocity. 

"I think," he said firmly, "we need to speak with Verne. Doctor, if you would?" 

"Of course, although I would advise against it." He glanced up at Rebecca. "Mademoiselle Fogg, is there water? His throat will be dry. If you wish him to speak--?" 

There was a bowl of water and a cloth on the end table. Passepartout would have brought in a pitcher . . . which rested on a shelf at the side of the room. Rebecca walked over to retrieve it and a glass as well. Placing the two on the nightstand, she drew up a chair beside the bed and took Verne's right hand lightly between her own. 

"If you would hold down his shoulders, _lightly_ Monsieur Fogg - yes," directed Dr. Picot, as he removed a small, stoppered glass tube from his bag. "When he awakens, he will automatically breathe deeply. The pain from the cracked rib . . . better to hold him down, or he might break it entirely in his struggle." 

Phileas placed a hand on either of Verne's shoulders then turned his head to look at her. Their gazes met and held for a moment, a silent agreement that this would _not_ be allowed to happen again. Then Dr. Picot removed the stopper from the bottle and waved beneath Verne's nose. 

Ammonia - the fumes were strong enough to make her eyes water. Phileas got the second worst shot of it - he blinked, turned his head, and closed his eyes tightly, but did not release his hold on Verne. Which was just as well, because Verne choked, sputtered, and tried to sit upright almost instantly. 

Two things stopped him, the pressure Phileas held on his shoulders and the sudden pain. She saw it happening - saw that first deep breath, Verne's eyes opening in astonishment and then screwed shut in agony. There wasn't enough air for him to scream and the cry that came out of him was more like a high-pitched hiss. 

It was more than enough to make her understand that awakening Verne had been a _very_ bad idea indeed. 

**** 

End of Chapter Ten 

**** 


	11. Chapter 11

**** 

**Chapter 11 - _In which the doctor is in_**

The smell, choking him. 

Pain. Light. Eyes closing, but the pain still there, like a knife in his chest. 

Someone holding him down - was he being murdered? 

"Steady man, steady." 

It was Fogg. He knew it was Fogg. And the hand gripping his - strong and soft - Rebecca? 

"Shallow breaths, Monsieur. You have an injury to your ribs." 

Jules opened his eyes and saw Fogg's face above him. The gaze that met his was filled with concern and then a smile changed that look to one of relief. "Welcome back, Verne." 

"You can release him now, Monsieur Fogg. He seems to comprehend." 

The pressure that held him down was gone. Jules stared upward at the ceiling of the Aurora; the moment his brain recognized where he was, his body relaxed of its own volition. He closed his eyes and discovered that bits of him were throbbing unmercifully, but nothing was quite as bad as that sharp, biting pain when he moved like-- He'd thought he was ready for it. 

He wasn't. 

Jules grit his teeth against the sudden agony and fell to rest precisely where he'd been the moment before. The back of a cool hand touched his forehead and he heard Rebecca say softly, "It might be best not to move much for a little while, until Dr. Picot has bandaged you properly." 

Opening his eyes again didn't seem to hurt. Daylight was fading from the cabin, but a lamp had been lit behind her - in the glow, Rebecca looked like an angel. He tried to tell her so, but his lips and mouth were so dry, the syllables wouldn't form. 

"You may give him water, Mademoiselle." 

He turned his head to find Fogg standing beside a stranger. The man was balding, his black suit well tailored and worth more than it would cost Jules to rent his rooms for a half year, at the very least. The man's trousers were spotted with dirt below the knee; that seemed odd to him. 

A glass was raised to his lips, his head tilted slightly. He moved his hand as if to take it, but another hand caught his own and held it fast - Fogg's grip. He drank, slowly, until the glass was taken away. It was easier to breathe and he was quickly finding the limits of it, his heart pounding in his chest at the slightest hint of that searing pain. 

"You're a very lucky man, Verne," said Fogg, with a light tone. "Passepartout found the Emperor's own physician to treat you." 

It was a joke. It had to be a joke. But the doctor smiled at him, and bowed slightly. "Dr. Raymond Picot, at your service, Monsieur Verne." Then the doctor's expression became more intense and he moved closer, as if peering into Verne's eyes. "Can you speak?" 

"Uh - yes. Yes, I think so." It was odd, trying to regulate his breathing and his voice - his words sounded faint, almost weak. "Yes." 

"Do you know where you are?" 

"Yes. I'm - the Aurora." He saw the doctor look to Fogg for confirmation, which was given with a nod. "Where's Passepart--?" 

"On an errand," replied Rebecca. 

"Aimee?" 

A dark look shared between Rebecca and Fogg told him everything. 

She was gone. 

The deep breath was unconscious. The agony that shot through his chest knocked him back into the mattress and made another breath not only impossible, but also unthinkable. Pressure returned to his shoulders, holding him down, trying to keep him still and Rebecca urged, "Shallow breaths, Jules, shallow. You have to breathe, damn you, or you'll turn blue." 

The idea of turning blue made him laugh, which made him breathe - not _too_ deeply - and the pain eased of its own accord. 

"That hurts," he announced, to no one in particular. 

It earned him a caress on the forehead from Rebecca and the pressure on his shoulders disappeared again. 

"We _will_ get her back," promised Fogg. "But we need your help." 

"_My_ help?" He wanted to laugh, but didn't trust the edge of the knife that appeared with that last breath. "Please tell me you're joking?" 

"Who attacked you?" asked Rebecca. 

They weren't joking. And there was something in Fogg's manner that was vaguely reminiscent of the first time they'd met, when Fogg had suspected him of being an assassin with a plan to kill their Queen Victoria. 

Jules remembered, just in time, not to take a deep breath. "Dondre, the man who tried to sell Aimee to me. I don't know the other one, never seen him before. But he was big." 

"How big?" pressed Fogg. 

Closing his eyes for a moment, Jules tried to remember a face, features. But there were only fists - enormous fists, and the hobnailed boots. Opening his eyes, he said weakly, "He blocked out the sun. At least a foot taller than me, that much wider as well. His fists were like - like -" 

And the words went away for a moment, lost in the memory of the blows, fists striking him again and again and-- 

"Jules?" 

He started, barely remembering to catch his breath as Rebecca's hand touched his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he answered. "What was I saying?" 

Fogg moved closer, ignoring Dr. Picot's frown. "You didn't know the second man. Could he have been a boxer, a pugilist?" 

"A boxer? Possibly. He was French, probably Parisian. I couldn't get away from him. I couldn't get around him. Aimee was screaming - I saw her. She was crying. I hadn't seen her cry. He hit me. Again he hit me." 

He moved his right hand to wipe across his eyes - the movement sent a brief stab of pain through him - and saw that his knuckles had swollen to almost twice their size. No wonder they hurt. He wouldn't be able to hold a pen for days, perhaps a week. 

If the visions returned . . . . 

Fear made him forget. But Fogg was getting better at reading the signs. Jules grabbed for the hands on his shoulders, using them to steady himself, to ride out the quick flash of agony. 

His eyes opened and Fogg was still holding him to the mattress. Jules swallowed and released his own grip, but still Fogg held him there. "Focus," Fogg said, in a tone God himself would not have dared ignore. 

"They took the money." He swallowed again, forced himself to breathe easily. "All of it. And what was left in my sock - a few francs. But they took the two hundred." 

"Forget the money," hissed Fogg. 

"I'll pay--" 

"Forget the _money_." This was accompanied by a slight shove against the bed, then Fogg's hands were off him. 

"Monsieur?" warned Dr. Picot. "I do not think--" 

Fogg turned away from the bed, hands fidgeting with his coat lapels. 

"What did they _say_, Jules?" He turned to see Rebecca smiling at him. She raised her gaze for a cautious look at Fogg's back, then looked down at Jules again, as if he were the center of her universe. "Tell us everything they said." 

"Dondre said - he said--" It was so hard to think. Jules closed his eyes, trying to remember. "He thought that I'd cleaned up Aimee to sell her - that the money had come from that." 

"Good God," uttered Fogg quietly. 

The comment caused him to open his eyes, but Fogg hadn't turned. "They decided not to kill me - Dondre said not to - because of the money. Because I'd cleaned her up. The money and her clothes meant something to them. It was supposed to be a lesson for me." He turned his face toward Rebecca again. "She cries now. They didn't like that. But they said, they said some of them liked the ones who - who--" 

Fogg was there to hold him down, but this time was no accident. Jules breathed deeply to feel the pain. He breathed deeply to remember. 

He breathed deeply because he'd failed to save her. 

"Stop that!" 

The sound of the slap on his cheek was almost as startling as the pain it caused - a different pain, a stinging sensation that awakened battered nerves there. Jules forgot to breathe and turned wide eyes to Rebecca. 

Her hand moved toward his cheek again - there was something dark in her eyes for a second when he flinched, but her touch was gentle. "Hurting yourself isn't going to help us find her," she scolded. "We need information, Jules, not a martyr." 

Her words stung more than the slap. Jules swallowed again, and Fogg's hands lifted from his shoulders. "There's nothing more to tell." 

"How were you lured from the boulevard?" pressed Rebecca. "What made you enter the alley?" 

"We were leaving the perfumery, heading back to the carriage . . . a boy ran past and grabbed Aimee's doll. She took off after him and - I couldn't catch them. I could barely keep sight of them." He swallowed and closed his eyes - he knew that Fogg had moved closer to the bed, just in case - but then Jules opened them again, dreading another slap from Rebecca. "The perfumery isn't far from where I found Aimee the other night. They knew I was local; they must have been watching the area for me. Dondre wanted his property back." 

"Which means they have no idea we're involved," said Fogg thoughtfully. 

"That _you're_ involved." Rebecca rose to her feet as she corrected him. "Lord only knows what they think I had to do with this. And you know the rescue by airship story has spread throughout the slum faster than a winter fever. Someone by now must have figured out that Jules has protection." 

"Or important clients." 

They were talking above him, beyond him. With the barest sigh, Jules gave up the attempt to remain awake. His lids were so heavy he could barely keep his eyes open. 

There was a touch on his right shoulder. He opened his eyes and saw that Fogg and Rebecca had moved to the corner of the room. Dr. Picot smiled down at him in a manner he found incredibly reassuring, considering the man was a stranger. 

"Not just yet, Monsieur Verne. I need to survey your injuries - the procedure is far more effective if you are awake. There is still the kidney and liver to consider. And I must bandage your ribs. Afterwards, you will sleep for many hours without pain, I assure you." 

The heaviness in his eyelids disappeared at the doctor's words. "Many hours? But . . . I can't! Aimee needs--" He placed his arm to either side and tried to lever himself to a sitting position. 

His hands hurt. His knees and shins hurt like the blazes, oddly enough. As he put any pressure on his right side-- 

"No! Monsieur Verne - do _not_--!" 

There was a muffled oath - Fogg - and hurried footsteps. He could hear, but not see for an instant, pain so intense that his vision collapsed to a small hole surrounded by blackness and filled with brilliant points of light. They winked like stars, increasing in intensity. But when he decided not to breathe, exhaling slowly, the stars began to diminish. He closed his eyes, watching them fade . . . well, like the explosive fireworks in the night sky on Bastille Day. 

They were calling his name. Rebecca caressed his cheek. He opened his eyes and found that he'd managed to lever his back against the wall and the headboard. Fogg was deftly drawing the blanket up and over his waist. 

It was easier to breathe now that he was sitting upright. "This . . . is better," he said, addressing his comments to the doctor. "But I can't sleep. I have to find Aimee." 

"You won't be able to walk for at least a day or two - it will take that long for the swelling in your knees to subside," said Dr. Picot sharply. "Would you have these people _carry_ you? And any unnecessary movement, even after I bandage your ribs, could cause the rib to break. Would you want your lung punctured? It is a horrible death, Monsieur. Most painful." 

A stern look and a deliberate shake of the man's head accompanied the warning. He looked away, trying to resign himself to the fact that he was, at the moment, utterly useless to Aimee. 

"We _will_ find her," said Fogg again, squeezing his shoulder. 

"But you _know_." Unable to face Rebecca, he stared at Fogg. "You _know_ what they'll have her do." 

He'd seen Fogg look upon him as the enemy before and that gaze had terrified him down to his soul. Now, seeing that look and knowing it was meant for someone else . . . it still scared the hell out of it. The man's grip on his shoulder tightened momentarily and then was gone. 

"They have money - that will buy us some time, tonight at the very least." 

There was a loud crash from the cabin below. Startled, Fogg looked up to meet Rebecca's puzzled gaze, then moved quickly to the door. As he opened it, they heard movement on the stairs, footsteps not unlike that of an approaching army, and Passepartout calling, "Wait! Wait! Is not to be going in--" 

"What the--?" Fogg was pushed back as the door opened into him and something ran into the room. 

Jules froze, terrified that he might breathe again, then identified the thing as a massive dog. Its paws were almost the size of its massive head, and the tail was whipping back and forth eagerly. It was the color of mud, or possibly covered with it, and it roamed the room with abandon. It moved first to Phileas and Dr. Picot, each of whom backed away in either disgust or alarm. Swinging away from them, and spattering Fogg with a thick rope of viscous drool as its head turned, it then gave full attention to Rebecca. Smart enough to remain seated, she grinned at the canine apparition, patted her lap to call it over, and then scratched the dog behind the ears, her left hand grasping and holding the leather collar around its neck. 

Passepartout appeared in the doorway, his tie askew and partially undone. "Very sorrys, master. Bruce is not knowing his own strengths." 

"Bruce?" asked Verne. The dog was so massive that if he reached out his hand, he could scratch the head, which rested in Rebecca's lap. He did so and got a paw on the bed for his pain - literally. 

When he drew back, Rebecca knocked the massive paw from the mattress and shook her finger in the dog's face, scolding, "Behave! That's an injured man." 

The large eyes appeared sorrowful, but Jules realized they must always look that way. It panted, a huge tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth. Its face was composed of layer upon layer of flesh, rolls of it, a long, wide snout, and large ears that flopped to either side. 

Fogg reached down to wipe the drool from his coat, but the instant his fingers touched the muck it adhered to his hand as well. "Passepartout, this is intolerable!" 

His valet jumped immediately into service, producing a handkerchief that he used to wipe the matter from Fogg's coat. Before he'd gotten very far Fogg grabbed the cloth from him, continuing the job and then wiping his own fingers. 

"Is a blooded hound," explained Passepartout. "After I was giving the carriage driver Monsieur doctor's message, I ask if he was knowing where to find a dogs that will be tracking lost peoples. I told him it was to finds a little girls." Bending past Fogg, he waved at the doctor. "He is very nice man, your driver. Four daughters!" 

"Indeed?" Dr. Picot scratched his head, as if puzzled. "I had no idea." 

"So he was taking me by the carriage to the man who had the blooded hounds. And they have been loaning us," Passepartout pointed toward the dog, "Bruce!" 

"Don't be cross with him, Phileas. It's a brilliant idea. You are truly a marvel, Passepartout," announced Rebecca. Scratching the dog's head and ears, she said to the animal, "Isn't he? Yes he _is_. Who's a pretty Bruce?" 

Handing the handkerchief back to Passepartout, Fogg sighed. "I commend your initiative, Passepartout, but was it really necessary to bring the blasted creature aboard the Aurora?" 

Passepartout's eyes opened wide. "But master, he would being lonely." 

"The fact is, Phileas, that we now have the means to trace Aimee through those alleys." She glanced over at Passepartout. "The shirt from last night, or the clothing she wore yesterday - anything that might have her scent?" 

"I am being sorry, Miss Rebecca." Passepartout's expression was crestfallen. "Those clothes have been already laundryed. Perhaps the bedclothes will be working?" 

"They'll smell of me as much as her," sighed Rebecca, still scratching the dog's head. She looked down into its large eyes. "It won't help us any to confuse the poor thing." 

Verne had been listening to the conversation, as well as watching as the dog occasionally turned to run a rough tongue over his bruised and swollen knuckles. They seemed to ache less afterward. And the dog's eyes were watching him intently. 

"The nightshirt," said Jules softly. He looked up at Fogg. "I gave Aimee a nightshirt to wear, night before last. It's still at my rooming house. Over the chair by the window--" 

"Passepartout--" 

"On my way, master." 

The valet slipped out even as Fogg turned, adding, "And take the blasted dog-- Oh. Damn." He peered out the now empty door, then gestured toward the dog. "_Now_ what are we supposed to do with it?" 

"I'll take him downstairs and get him some water." Rebecca rose, still holding the dog by the collar. The animal was tall enough so that she could maintain her grasp on him and stand completely upright. She paused at the door and looked back at Jules. "We'll find her, Jules. Now let the doctor finish his examination and then get some rest." 

"I will." 

The smile she gave him before she hefted the dog out the door did more for the ache in his soul than any of the doctor's bandaging could have done for his body - Jules was completely certain of that. Unfortunately, the creature shook its massive head on the way out, sending drool flying. Two more strands spattered against Phileas' coat. 

"Damn," he repeated. He reached for the handkerchief in his vest pocket, but was handed one by Dr. Picot. 

"Monsieur?" 

"Thank you, doctor." Fogg wiped at the mess, but it proved to be a gesture of futility. "Verne, I believe that Rebecca's correct - the sooner you're bandaged, the sooner we can get you back to your rooms and--" 

"No!" Fogg looked up at him, surprised. "I want to stay - don't make me leave." Jules hesitated, and gritted his teeth, a slightly deeper panicked breath slicing through him. As Fogg approached, Jules held up his right hand, palm outward. "No, I'm all right." 

The movement stopped Fogg's approach, but not his studious gaze. Jules looked away, shamed by his sudden outburst, what must seem a thoughtless and panicked protestation on his part. Not that he expected to be left completely alone in his rooms - his friends were not so callous as to think he could fend for himself at the moment or could afford someone to stay with him and would no doubt provide an attendant. But to be set aside for his own safety while they were out trying to find Aimee because he had failed her . . . that he could not bear. 

Jules turned his gaze toward the doctor. "Please, don't let them make me leave." 

Dr. Picot rubbed his chin with his hand, then glanced speculatively at Fogg. "Is this airship always this steady? I must admit, Monsieur, I suffer from the seasickness, and yet I have felt no discomfort while aloft." 

"Smooth as silk more often than not, except in inclement weather." A quick lean toward the porthole and Fogg announced, "The sky seems clear enough. That shouldn't be an issue." 

"Then I see no reason why your young friend cannot stay where he is. After I have bandaged his ribs, he should have a minimum of movement for some hours." 

Fogg hesitated. "You'd be more comfortable in your own room, Verne. Surely--" 

"This _is_ my room." A fainter hint of surprise in Fogg's eyes, better hidden, but still there. "I'll probably be asleep, but if I'm here when you find her, when you bring her back . . . ." He paused, realizing the burden he'd just laid on his friend - 'when' you find her, not 'if.' 

That was the question he expected to be addressed. 

Fogg didn't answer at first, simply watching him for a long moment. "It's the matter you mentioned before?" 

It could have been anything they had spoken about - argued about, if it came to that, earlier in this very room - but he knew that Fogg had centered completely on that brief verbal misstep. It was when he'd protested leaving Aimee with no one to care, to really _care_ for her, when he'd protested at leaving her alone. 

His turn to be surprised, stunned enough to do little but nod hesitantly in answer. 

"Then you stay, until we find her." And before there could be anything more on that account, Fogg turned his attention to Dr. Picot. "When Passepartout returns, I'll have him prepare a light supper for you, doctor, and arrange a carriage to return you to your home." 

"I think . . . I shall presume on your hospitality for a time as well, Monsieur Fogg, if you do not mind. When you return with the child, you may have need of my services." He shot a glance toward Jules, smiling faintly. "And to be most honest, I am curious to see the end of this adventure." 

"I would be honored." Fogg bowed from the waist, an elegant gesture between gentlemen that Dr. Picot matched. He walked to the door and then turned, as if irritated. Meeting Jules' gaze, Fogg shook his head despairingly. "And, Verne, _do_ try to get some sleep." 

"Good luck," said Jules. 

Fogg nodded once, then closed the door behind him. 

"Monsieur Verne, can you sit upright without the support of the wall? I should like to bandage the ribs now." 

"I can try. And call me 'Jules.'" 

"Jules, then." 

It was not so much a matter of swinging his legs over the side of the bed, as reclaiming the mattress a small square at a time. With the doctor's help, he was able to shift himself so that his back was to the doctor and his left arm rested on the headboard, against the wall. Bending his knees was incredibly painful. 

He found the preparation of plaster for the bandages fascinating, as well as something to keep his mind off his pain. There was a small wire whisk in the doctor's voluminous bag, along with a packet of plaster powder. Dumped into a bowl and with water added, it became a paste. 

Seeing his interest, Dr. Picot smiled. "This can be done with flour and water as well," he instructed. "Not as strong, but it will hold a finger steady, or a toe, when one has no other options." 

"What would you use as bandages?" 

"Strips of cloth. Clean paper, if the cloth was too dirty. Sticks, perhaps. A paper mâche of healing." The doctor's smile turned grim. "I was an army surgeon at one time. There are things one learns among wounded men that are not taught at university or medical academies." 

"There are a _lot_ of things I'm discovering aren't taught at university," agreed Jules. He gritted his teeth as the dry bandage was wrapped around his lower ribs. When the doctor had finished and fastened the ends he found the support helped him breathe and sighed in relief. 

"Better for you?" 

"Much." 

The light coating of wet plaster on the subsequent layer was initially cold; he had to fight to keep from cringing as the doctor wrapped it around him. 

"When the child is returned, what will happen to her?" asked Dr. Picot. 

"What?" Concentrating on not moving, it took him a second to filter the doctor's question. "Oh. She can't stay with me; I'm only a law student. There's not much I can do. I thought the foundling home; Fogg suggested finding a nursemaid for her and renting rooms until he could find a proper family for her." He took an experimental breath, caught an edge of pain, and then exhaled quickly. "I don't know if that's possible now, not in Paris. They might find her again." 

"Sit for a moment and let the plaster set. I shall look at your knees and shins, now." 

The doctor was incredibly thorough. No matter how Jules tried to hide the pain, Dr. Picot seemed to realize what hurt and what did not. After the plaster had set, he found himself on his back, staring up at the ceiling as the doctor poked and prodded his bruises. 

"You are a lucky man indeed, Jules, or your attacker was very good at his job. You may pass blood for a day or so and there will be tenderness for some time to come, but your liver and kidneys seem not to have sustained irreparable damage." 

The words were as much of a relief as the blanket being drawn over him again. "When will I be able to walk?" 

"Within a day or two the swelling should have gone - you will be slow and ache, but you will walk. The rib may continue you to cause you pain for a week, or four weeks. There should be bed rest for the first week at least." The doctor turned from repackaging his bandages at Jules' groan. "That is a problem?" 

"I have classes." Jules raised his bandaged left hand to his forehead and stared bleakly at the ceiling. "I'll be sent away from school. My father . . . ." He shook his head from side to side, unable to finish that sentence. "My professors--" 

"Will be more than happy to accept a note from his majesty's personal physician that you were injured while under service to the Emperor." 

Jules turned his head in astonishment. "You'd do that? But . . . I've done nothing." 

"Attempting to save one of his majesty's most defenseless subjects from men such as these and being beaten for the effort?" Dr. Picot shook his head slightly. "I would not call that 'nothing,' Jules." 

"Thank you." 

The doctor was removing a series of bottles from his bag - tiny things - which were set side by side on the bed table. "It is I who should be thanking you - or, rather, Passepartout - for the assault on my coach. I had forgotten what it meant for my skills to be needed by worthy patients. And you have given me a tale to tell to my most illustrious patient during my next visit." 

There was a delicacy in the man's movements, his hands rock steady as he used an eyedropper to transfer liquid from various bottles. Finally, he placed the stopper on a bottle and shook it. The liquid inside was like pearl, opalescent. "Laudanum," explained Dr. Picot, holding the bottle up to the light and peering at it intently. "Enough to allow you to sleep through the pain." 

"I don't want to sleep." 

"You don't want to release your hold on the pain," corrected Dr. Picot. "Pain is not a punishment, Jules. Pain is a warning from the body to stop, before further injury occurs. Using it to assuage your undeserved guilt in this matter would be an abomination in the sight of God." The stern gaze fixed on him gave Jules more than a glimpse at the man who had surgeoned on battlefields. "Do I make myself clear?" 

"Absolutely," whispered Jules. 

"Good." The genial manner returned, along with a slight smile, as the doctor cleaned the eyedropper by flushing it in a bottle of clear liquid. Then, quite carefully, he opened the bottle of laudanum and filled the eyedropper to a specific measurement. "Will you take the laudanum willingly, or shall I call for Monsieur and Mademoiselle Fogg to persuade you?" 

That didn't bear thinking about. Jules simply closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and stuck out his tongue. The laudanum had a chalky consistency, quickly followed by a strong taste of alcohol. It burned on its way down his throat and he opened his eyes in surprise at the fire of it, remembering just in time not to breathe deeply. 

A clatter at the nightstand drew his attention - Dr. Picot was replacing the bottles in his bag. "You should sleep well." 

"Tell Fogg - when they bring Aimee back, I need to know. Even if I'm asleep . . . ." It didn't make sense. His tongue felt thick and Jules shook his head, trying to think. 

He felt a touch on his shoulder and stared up at Dr. Picot. "_I_ have a young son," the doctor admitted. "I'll tell them. Now, sleep, young man. Give your body a chance to heal." 

The command was pointless. Jules was about to tell Dr. Picot just that when he realized that his lips weren't going to move. His eyelids began to fall of their own accord as he struggled to keep them raised. His hands were numb. 

There was no pain. 

**** 

End of Chapter Eleven 

**** 


	12. Chapter 12

**** 

**Chapter 12 - _In which the hounds go hunting_**

Bruce was actually very well behaved, panting in the center of the lift as it descended to the Paris alley pavement. It was Phileas who seemed to be in need of discipline, with only one foot on the very corner edge of the platform, his hands tightly knitted into the cable to steady himself. The awkward arrangement was no doubt intended to prevent Bruce from again decorating his coat and trousers. 

"Take care," Rebecca warned him. "If you fall and break your leg, where will we be then?" 

"With a broken leg and unstained trousers," he informed her, eyeing the dog warily. "I can't even begin to wonder where it must come from." 

"I thought you liked dogs." 

"I'm fond enough of a few breeds, yes. That," he nodded toward Bruce, "is not one of them." 

It was, of course, a sham. Easier to talk about a dislike of the bloodhound as a breed and to be fastidious than to think about the loosely tied parcel Phileas carried beneath his arm. Because to think of the nightshirt might mean one might think of the child who had worn it. And where she might be now. And what she might be doing. 

And what someone might be doing to her . . . . 

Bruce, however, took neither Phileas' comments nor attitude to heart. The creature was a muscle-bound, amiable, elephant of a dog. He panted and drooled, occasionally shaking his massive head and letting an extended rope of saliva flying in a random direction. More often than not, it just happened to be toward Phileas. 

As soon as the ground was within sniffing range, Bruce loped forward with one long, undeniable stride. Rebecca felt as if her arm were being pulled from its socket - it was all so unexpected - and she nearly tumbled from the platform. But a quick flip of her hand helped her to loop the leash around her wrist, giving her slightly more control. Phileas was suddenly there, putting his trousers within danger of a wetting of saliva, his own hands on the upper part of the leash as a stabilizing factor. 

It was still evening, the hours heading toward midnight at a languorous pace, as they always seemed to in Paris. With the onset of the chill night air the shutters were closed and echoes of drink, merriment, and argument were at a minimum. The sounds would burst into life, echoing off the brick and plaster slum walls as doors occasionally opened and closed, but the general setting was one of stillness, accompanied by the faintly unpleasant odors that one would find in such a place. 

Phileas stood still, but surveyed the area. Rebecca found herself not at all pressed by Bruce, who lay down on the street and panted, having exerted himself obviously beyond measure in stepping down from the descending platform and pulling her after him. 

"Where did it happen?" asked Phileas, after a long pause. 

"Over here." Rebecca started toward the mouth of the alley, not fifteen feet ahead of them - and was brought up short when the dog on the other end of the leash did not move. When she turned to glare at him, not being pleased by nearly having her arm wrenched from its socket twice in one night, Bruce seemed wholly unrepentant. Or, more precisely, completely oblivious to her desires. "Come, Bruce," she said sternly, tugging on the leash. 

The dog looked up at her with apologetic eyes, but did not move a muscle. 

Phileas whistled through his teeth, a high-pitched, sharp squeal of a sound. Bruce immediately swung his body up and back into activity, loping along until he'd reached Rebecca's side. 

"I'm very much obliged," she said, with no small amount of wonder 

"Happy to be of service." 

She headed toward the wall again, Bruce walking easily on her left side and Phileas on her right. "And you knew he would respond to the whistle-?" 

"Because he's obviously nothing more than a dumb brute that's been well-trained by someone." Phileas made an ineffectual swipe with his handkerchief at a new Bruce-induced stain on his coat. "Someone with either an enormous laundry bill or a tailor on constant call." 

There was only starlight to guide them - their examination of the scene was hardly thorough, but Phileas still took a moment to look, moving close to the wall and then running his gloved hand along a certain part of it. "Verne ducked here." 

"Yes," she agreed. 

"At least that's a start." He turned toward the length of the alley, took the parcel from beneath his arm into his hands, and opened it. "Is there a procedure for this sort of thing?" 

"I'm not sure. This is my first bloodhound, too, you know." 

"I didn't." Phileas met her eyes for a moment, a slight smile on his face. "Trust to luck then, and nature taking its course." 

There was no sense in being particularly fastidious - the brown paper in which the shirt had been wrapped to hide the scent from the dog was no longer of use. Phileas tore the package open easily, then leaned close enough to thrust the item it had contained beneath the dog's enormous snout. 

Bruce merely stared at him with baleful eyes, snuffled for an instant, then turned its head, obviously disinterested. 

"I see we're off to a roaring start," noted Rebecca. 

Phileas shot her a sharp look. Then he carefully got down on one knee, grabbed the dog's head and tried to get the shirt beneath its nose. "Come on, Bruce, do what you do best." 

The dog focused its eyes on him when he said its name, snuffled again . . . and turned its head away. 

"Are we absolutely certain this _is_ a bloodhound?" asked Rebecca, as Phileas rose to his feet and began to wipe off his knee. 

"It's too ugly to be anything else." He looked away for a moment, then back at her. "We've no other option, have we?" 

She shook her head slightly as her only response. 

Phileas considered the dog again. "Third time might be the charm." 

"There's one thing you haven't tried - you might _ask_ Bruce," suggested Rebecca. 

"Ask it? And how am I supposed to 'ask' it? 'If you wouldn't mind, could you take a sniff of this shirt and trace a little girl for us, oh, about eight years old or so?'" 

There was a note in Phileas' voice that was impossible to place, a mixture of incredulity and outrage. Rebecca might have laughed aloud if the situation weren't so serious. 

Time was running out . . . . 

Giving Phileas a dismissive shake of her head, she pushed aside her skirts and squatted down beside Bruce. One yank and the nightshirt was transferred from her cousin's hand to her own. She immediately placed the cloth beneath the dog's nose and said, "Bruce, _please_ concentrate. This is important. We need you to find - no . . . _fetch_-" 

She'd barely uttered the word when Bruce turned his massive head, nearly knocking her over. The suction from the dog's sudden intake of breath stuck the nightshirt to its nostrils as if magnetism had been involved. Then it bounded forward so quickly that Rebecca was forced to drop her hold on the leash or she would have been dragged through the filth of the alley. 

"After him!" she cried, when Phileas hesitated long enough to attempt to offer a hand up. He took to his heels after the dog as she scrambled to her feet and then she also was in pursuit, leaving the discarded nightshirt behind. 

However brutish and heavy the animal might have seemed when quiescent, his gait was marvelous to behold in full flight - it was like trying to match a well-muscled racehorse in a furlong. Phileas had a head start and a longer gait, but Rebecca pushed herself to draw abreast of her cousin. She scraped her hands careening off a brick corner in an attempt to match the pace when the alley emptied into an even darker and smaller street. They were barely able to keep Bruce in sight as he raced down the length of an alley only to turn at another, paws barely slipping at the unsignalled movement before he fell back into stride again. 

Bruce bellowed as he ran and the full-throated barks echoed from the walls on either side. They would have been hard-pressed to track him from the sound, for it seemed not only to come from ahead, but behind and from the side as well. Had they a destination in mind, it would have been easy to outflank the animal. That not being the case, all that could be done was to follow. And if they lost the dog or if the dog weren't truly following the scent or lost the scent . . . . 

Running was much more comforting than thinking. Rebecca found herself grateful that she'd taken the time to slip into her work clothes - her dress corset would have killed her by this point in the chase and God only knew when it would end. The bite in the night air helped, cold dampening the unfortunate odors that gathered in the less sanitary parts of the alleys they raced through. It would need a good rain to wash away the refuse. 

But a good rain would destroy any sign of Aimee's scent. 

And then, when Rebecca began to seriously consider that perhaps Bruce was leading them on his version of a nightly walk, with no more intent behind it than a call of nature and even Phileas cast her a dubious glance as he once again passed her . . . Bruce stopped. 

It was at a thoroughly unremarkable door - wood with iron fittings - set into a brick wall. There were small windows on either side and Phileas took the one, Rebecca the other. 

The grime obscuring the glass appeared to be on both the inside and outside of the pane, for a wipe with her handkerchief did little to improve the blurry view of a room. There was movement within. There was sound - even through the glass. A raucous gathering of drunkards, but how many? 

"Fifteen," announced Phileas. "Perhaps eighteen." 

"No 'perhaps' about it. Eighteen." 

He joined her at the window on the left and peered in. "Eighteen. No visible weaponry, but that doesn't mean they're unarmed." His lips drawn into a wry smile, Phileas gestured toward the door. "After you?" 

"You're too kind-" 

Before Phileas managed to get his fingers on the handle of the door, it was thrown open. They stepped back in more than enough time to avoid being struck. Bruce, who'd had his nose wedged at the base of the door, let out a yelp. The ruffian exiting the place started at the noise; Bruce slipped past him and into the watering hole, the leash trailing behind him. 

It was quite by accident that Phileas dropped toward the leash just as she did - they were usually far more synchronized in their movements and the fact the leash moved in fits and starts with no discernible pattern seemed to complicate matters. Rebecca smacked her forehead on the flat pane of the door in an attempt not to collide with Phileas. Her cousin, however, over-balanced and landed flat on his face just inside the doorway of the dubious establishment. 

To characterize the floor as filthy would have been an understatement. To say that sound ceased completely, an exaggeration. The truth between those two was that Phileas rose to his feet unassisted, brushing his coat and trousers as he moved, his expression absolutely blank. After touching her forehead and checking her fingers for blood - they were clean - Rebecca moved to stand beside him, generally assured that she hadn't completely cracked her head open on the door. 

She glared at Bruce, who was watching them with wide, sorrowful eyes from beneath a rickety wooden table. "Bad dog," she scolded. "_Very_ bad dog." 

Releasing a whine, Bruce lowered his head to his paws, as if unwilling to move. Rebecca stepped forward to take the leash from the floor beside him, but found herself cut off by a man who smelled abominable - he was scruffy and looked as if neither he nor his worn clothing had seen water in the nearer side of a fortnight. 

"Looking for something, mademoiselle?" he asked, his accent declaring him Parisian-born. That he was so ill-bred she decided was not entirely the fault of the city. 

She opened her mouth to respond in kind, but Phileas caught hold of her arm and stepped in front of her with a move of such elegant simplicity, she almost found herself more admiring than annoyed by the maneuver. 

Almost. 

But Phileas was well accustomed to situations like this and lifted his fingers from her arm a mere second before she would have shaken off his hold . . . or forcibly removed it, if necessary. His eyes and his attention were centered completely on the man who had confronted her. 

"I need to find a man named 'Dondre.'" The room quieted further as the statement settled upon them, then he added, "And a child." 

The light was minimal, oil lamps hung at intervals on walls that were cracked, caked with soot and other substances. There were three tables of varying sizes, a few chairs and two benches, all mismatched and obviously having seen better days. One even bore ancient traces of gilt. Loot from the revolution? Oh, how the mighty had fallen. 

She could not bring herself to think that of Phileas. Even with a smear of dust on his cheek, his coat and trousers stained, he was every inch a gentleman. He waited as the crowd of men at the bar and near the tables parted. He knew how to bide his time. 

So, it seemed, did Dondre . . . if he was the man hunched over a drink at the bar, his back toward them. What Jules had described as 'old' was more a dissolute man in late-middle age. There was a skeletal look to the hand that lifted the ceramic mug from the bar, a slight shake that could have been palsy or too much spirits or both. His clothing had no doubt seen better days, and those must have been long past before the coat and trousers fell into the procurer's hands. 

"So _you're_ the one," he said aloud. Another swallow from the cup, then it was dropped to the bar, discarded as useless. Dondre turned, his eyes studying the length of Phileas. "Yes, it would be you. He was lucky to find you for her. Or has he pimped for you before?" 

The man's gaze made her feel as if something cold and disgusting had touched her bare skin. She didn't shiver, refusing to give him the benefit of anything but an angry glare. 

Dondre smiled, rotted teeth showing in his mouth as he chuckled to himself and took a none-too-steady step forward. "I can see why you'd prefer the little girls - this one must be too much to handle. Leave her with me, though, and I'll break her for you. When you came back she'd be mild as a -" 

"The child," said Phileas, in a tone of voice Rebecca recognized as one he used when addressing men he'd already marked for death. "Where is Aimee?" 

"You want her for the night?" There was a hesitation as he considered Phileas' grim expression. "No, you want her for your own. Have to give the boy that - cleaning her up was the right thing to do." 

It suddenly struck Rebecca that she'd forgotten about Verne, now drugged senseless in the Aurora so that he might sleep through the initial pain from the beating he'd received. The beating this man had ordered. The beating this man had watched and no doubt _enjoyed_. 

Phileas knew her too well, anticipating her move forward, catching her wrist and holding the edge of the sleeve so the knife she had prepared to throw at Dondre caught in the lace at the edge of her cuff. The metal tip drew blood from her wrist, biting into her skin, and she hissed her anger in Phileas' ear, coming up hard against the back of his interfering shoulder. 

He stood against her, even the force of her anger unable to shift him. Eyes fixed on Dondre, Phileas asked, "How much for the child?" 

Dondre picked up the nuance of none-too-subtle threat in her cousin's tone, taking a half-step backward. He continued his appraisal of his opponent, then shook his head. "No. This isn't just the one thing for you, is it? No matter what I say, you'll pay it. Or double it." He bit his lip thoughtfully. "I sell you the girl now . . . and I think I might not wake up tomorrow. I keep the girl, you leave me alone. You kill me, she dies." 

"I'll find her before that happens," Rebecca hissed in her cousin's ear, still glaring at Dondre over his shoulder. 

But Phileas didn't respond, either to her, or to Dondre. She realized that his gaze was now centered on another man at the bar, the man who'd been standing beside Dondre. 

Verne had been right - the man was large enough to block out the sun. He had several inches on Phileas in height and his chest seemed broader than the width of her skirts. The cloth of his shirt was drawn tightly across his back, as if it barely fit him, and the muscles of his arms were well defined even beneath the thin sleeves. Part of her went wild at the challenge he would pose as an opponent, at the possibility that he would evenly match her if they battled with any kind of weapon. 

Her common sense told her that she'd _want_ weapons. Because if he got his hands around her throat, he could snap her neck as easily as wring the life from a chicken with one swift twist of the spine. 

"Good God," she whispered. "It's a wonder Jules wasn't killed." 

Phileas ignored her; his attention was fixed on Dondre. "You're right - as long as you have the girl, you're safe. But I won't stop until she's out of your hands. We've reached an impasse." He nodded once, as if deciding something. "Will you stand a wager, to settle the matter?" 

"A wager?" asked Dondre, licking his lips with interest. He glanced at the men around him, none of whom seemed disposed to move forward to help . . . or hinder. "What sort of wager?" 

"I'll take on your man, there, for the best of three rounds." 

For a moment, Rebecca thought she'd swallowed her tongue. She got as far as, "Phileas! Are you-?!" before he raised the back of his hand at the height of his shoulder as a signal to silence her. 

The boxer, turning to face them from the bar, succeeded where Phileas did not - she was speechless at the sheer size of him. His nose had been broken at least once, and poorly set, but she didn't like the way he eyed Phileas. The slight upturn of his lip was an expression of utter confidence in his own ability. 

To be honest, she couldn't blame him. 

Dondre, too, was eyeing his man and then Phileas in turn. He was still none-too-steady on his feet but seemed to take his time appraising the situation. "A wager between gentlemen, heh?" Black rot showed through his uneven grin. "One round, market rules. You win - you get the child. I win -" he leered at Rebecca, "I get what's left." 

"Done," announced Phileas, then turned toward Rebecca to enlist her aid in removing his coat. "If I lose," he whispered, "run like hell." 

Her glare was sufficient unto itself to let him know what she'd do if he lost . . . and it obviously didn't include running. But she took his coat as he slipped his arms from it. 

"I'm serious," he added, starting on the buttons of his vest. "Head for the Aurora." 

She slapped his hands from his vest and began to undo the buttons methodically, already imagining Passepartout's murmured sighs about torn buttonholes. "You're a bigger fool than I thought if you believe I'm going to run off and leave you here at the mercy of that-that-" 

"Language, Rebecca," he said warmly, "remember, we're in company." 

"You'll forgive me if I don't appreciate the company you keep." The vest was open and he shrugged out of that as well, handing it to her. She folded it neatly over a chair and turned to find him unfastening his cuffs and rolling his sleeves up to his forearms. "I don't see how you can win. That's not a man - that's a bear wearing trousers and bracers." 

"The crowd seems to have some faith in me." With a slight smile, Phileas nodded toward a table upon which franc notes were being tossed; one man loudly declaimed the change in odds as more and more money fell to the table. Phileas listened for a moment, then winced. "Two to one odds - better than I'd expected. If you've any pin money left, I'd suggest you place a wager." 

"I'll do a damned sight better than that." Before he could protest, she reached down to unhook her skirt and stepped out of it, then shrugged out of the blouse as well, thankful that she'd dressed for action. 

It took her a second to realize that absolute silence had fallen and every eye in the place was upon her leather clothing. Then, just as suddenly, the man at the table collecting wagers was inundated as fistfuls of francs rained down upon him and the calls of the men placing bets reached the level of a full-blown din. 

"Now you've queered the odds." Phileas shook his head disappointedly. "I'll never know what they might have given me." 

"Learn to live with the disappointment," she said sharply. "As your second, I hope to help you do just that." Rebecca glanced down to see a man draw a chalk line at the center of the room, while others pushed chairs and tables back against the wall. "Do we have any idea what their market rules entail?" 

"No. Although I should think they'll be more at odds than not with the London Prize Ring rules." Phileas rubbed his left fist against the palm of his right hand then reversed the maneuver, watching his competitor drink at the bar the entire time. "Whatever his plans, he can expect no less from me than he gave Verne." 

The fighter's second was far less imposing - he had the features of a stoat, with tiny eyes and a slim, wiry frame. She realized that she could take him within two moves and relaxed slightly, turning her attention back to the man-mountain at the bar. "You don't intend to kill him?" 

"If I can avoid it. He's no more than a dog on a leash." Phileas gestured toward Dondre in an off-handed manner. "Keep your eyes on the procurer. When it starts to go badly for his man, he'll slip away and lead you to Aimee." 

"You won't mind if I don't entirely share your over-confidence." 

"If there wasn't any risk, it wouldn't be worth the wager." He met her cold look with a grim smile, then placed his hand on her shoulder. "The child is in far more danger than I. We both know that." 

"But we don't both have to like it." She frowned at him, then kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Luck." 

"I'd rather have skill on my side. You _will_ manage to keep that ferret from slamming the side of a chair into my kidneys when my back is turned?" 

"I thought he looked rather more like a stoat." 

"Stoat?" Phileas raised an eyebrow, gave the man in question an appraising stare, then nodded. "I think you're right. A ferret has more dignity." 

"Come to scratch, gentlemen, if you would please," called a man from the center of the floor, pointing down at the chalk line at his feet. 

No gentleman would have fought with his fists and in his shirtsleeves unless he considered himself a 'gentleman amateur' . . . at least not under these circumstances and certainly not in England, where prize-fighting was contrary to the Queen's law in many places. But Rebecca fought the urge to inform the linesman that he was mistaken. 

She'd never seen Phileas box. There had been tales of his performances at school and occasional friendly bouts with Erasmus at an even earlier age. Those had developed into rough-house contests ended only when a item of furniture or bric-a-brac had been broken, a piece of clothing torn, or one of them was caught at the collar by an intervening servant. That Sir Boniface had never personally intervened had not seemed strange to her at the time - there was always a servant at hand for that. But as she thought back now at the look on his face as he'd watched the fighting, it was never that of a father watching his sons, but as a general watching his officers in training. 

Odd, to think of that now. 

She'd seen Phileas fight, had fought beside him herself of course, with and without weapons . . . though a gentleman preferred weapons to bare-fisted brawling. A weapon could be controlled and used to advantage, while there were too many uncertainties without one. Weapons required specified skill, but fighting with nothing but one's fists and wits involved other skills. Phileas had the required grace of movement and the strength . . . but she wasn't entirely certain that he had the physical brute force so evident in his opponent. He would have to be clever, have to discover the man's inevitable weakness - for there would be one, no man of that size and shape would be tied to a creature like Dondre if he could make money in sporting houses. For Phileas, it was only a matter of finding his opponent's Achilles' heel before he had his own skull crushed. 

The stoat took his position some three paces behind his man and she mirrored him. There was no circle drawn, as in a proper match, but the crowd provided their own limitations to the battlefield, hovering close and giving the air a heady mixture of stale liquor, sweat, and a general state of unwash as their contribution to the event. Their cries were raucous, bordering on and passing into obscenity even before the action began; she made note of three distinct French phrases that she vaguely understood and would like to use in future. Perhaps she could ask Verne. 

Or perhaps not. It was tempting, if only to make him blush. 

Verne would not approve of this, not only the sport - his opinion most likely being that it encompassed the worst of senseless brutality - but also that it was a form of revenge on his behalf. After the fact, she might be able to convince him that he was wrong about the latter assumption. This was only a means to an end, a way to remove Aimee from the clutches of Dondre and his ilk in such a fashion that not even the local thugs would assist the villain if he again attempted to abduct the child - they, after all, had their own sense of fair play. 

It was just as well Verne wasn't present, for he would see through her words of excuse to the lie they shielded. One look at the expression on Phileas' face - the cold, collected, determined look he reserved for those who had wronged himself and his - and there would have been no question. For her own part, she approved of this. One could be magnanimous during the great game, where the slaughter of nations could be dismissed by great powers as a lady might not deign to notice a gentleman's tread upon her skirt hem. Even when individuals were involved, the code of conduct still remained somewhat set, and though losses might fester, one took such things in stride. This however, the deliberate beating of a friend and an innocent who only sought the salvation of a misplaced child, was _not_ to be tolerated. 

The boxer paused only to remove his shirt, tearing it from his chest with a disregard to buttons and buttonholes that would have made Passepartout wince, and to the accompaniment of a cheer from the ravening sportsmen. Naked from the waist up, he was all muscle. 

She hoped that description could also be applied to his brain. 

Silence fell, as the lineman raised a handkerchief into the air. His fingers released it, the cloth fluttering to the floor not unlike a wounded dove. It had barely fallen to rest when the first blow landed and the voice of the crowd rose about her like a sea of sound, thirsty for blood, and hurt, and pain . . . preferably someone else's. 

That someone else was Phileas - an Englishman, a stranger, and a member of the upper class. Even with his fists raised in the traditional manner, the boxer had been too quick for him. His nose appeared slightly bloody, but not broken - there was no telltale swelling and she was certain she would have heard the crack even above the thunder of the crowd's approval. That he had managed to keep his skull from being smashed in meant that he'd drawn back in time, yielding a foot from the line. Not the most auspicious beginning. For a few seconds Phileas was driven to parrying the blows that rained heavily upon him, giving ground. His shirt buttons were beginning to suffer from the body blows, falling underfoot with no real notice. 

It was not long before both men's skins shone with the sweat of their efforts. The boxer's arm shot out, the blow aimed at a place Phileas' eye had been a moment before, but that his fist had replaced. There was no foolish attempt to stand his ground - Phileas knew enough to move to wherever the boxer was not, but his efforts were reduced to blocking blow after blow. With a target so large, she would have thought it would be easy to find an undefended square of skin on that broad body, but the pugilist had experience on his side, knowing when to turn, when to block, and how not to leave himself undefended. It would take, however, an infinite engine to keep a body that size running in such a manner. Rebecca was quite certain that Phileas meant to tire his opponent before pressing an advantage - but could he last long under such a merciless assault? 

The question became moot - the stoat shifted from his position behind the champion to the side of the ring. He appeared to be enjoying the spectacle as much as any other member of the crowd, carrying a ceramic tankard in one hand, but his eyes kept watching Phileas. Either he planned to spill the liquid to the floor and cause Phileas to fall, or the tankard could be used as weapon in the side or small of the back without eliciting too much comment from the watchers. These were, of course, 'market rules.' The seconds in this match were as much a part of the show as the combatants. 

It was too easy. Rebecca maneuvered herself to the stoat's left. When he stepped forward she tripped him, so that he fell not into the ring but into the spectators. As he attempted to rise, she offered him a hand . . . and an elbow between the shoulder blades that knocked him to the floor. 

Wisely, the stoat didn't move from that position. An old codger at the front of the crowd met her eyes, winked approvingly, and handed her his own ceramic cup. She smiled, sipped at it, fought to keep from spitting out what only these men could call 'wine,' then turned her attention back to the match. 

Rebecca had never found the sound of a fist smacking into flesh overly appealing. She learned, through training, what the varying sounds of blows might signify. To see an opponent favor his left shoulder after having delivered a kick to the joint that echoed with a resounding 'thwack' did make one's next move somewhat easier to decide. More often than not the roar of the crowd and the ever-increasing call to wager muffled the sounds of impact. The few she heard were not at all informative. 

There was little blood as yet - the pugilist had drawn nothing since the first shot when he'd struck Phileas' nose. The bruising on their bodies would not appear immediately, although she could begin to see some discoloration on the boxer and the part of Phileas' chest not covered by his shirt. That the boxer had received such damage surprised her - she hadn't seen the blows. The two different styles were now evident to her; Phileas' fists were quick, his strikes sudden and directed, while the pugilist relied upon the power of the body behind his fists, pummeling. It was the difference between the sculptor using a chisel and the quarryman using a pick, each would remove sections of rock but with far different results. 

For Phileas and the boxer it became nothing more than a matter of gaining ground. Neither was striking below the belt - although how much longer that would last, she couldn't say - but they grappled at least twice after the removal of the stoat from the proceedings. The larger man was tiring. Although sweat covered each of them, their foreheads and necks shining even in the dim light from the oil lamps, the pugilist was the one who struggled. Perhaps he wasn't used to fighting an opponent with excellent reflexes and maneuverability? Phileas seemed to change position each time she blinked, never where his opponent's fist landed but always to the left or the right, ready to land a counter punch to the shoulder, or arm, or chin. 

That isn't to say that he went untouched. At one spectacularly mis-timed interval, Phileas caught a blow to the side of the chin that sent him spinning back into the crowd of spectators. They helpfully threw him into the pugilist's path, but he ducked, caught the boxer with some tight punches in the stomach, then launched himself sideways when the boxer began to crumble down around him. 

Rebecca grabbed hold of Phileas' right arm and pulled him to his feet. "You might avoid trying to get hit." 

"I'll - remember - that." He was nearly bent double, hands on his knees, watching as the boxer attempted to disentangle himself from the crowd. "One - more - and - he's through." 

"I think he'd say the same about you." Grabbing a half-filled cup from someone's hands, she held it up to his lips. 

Phileas took a long swallow, then spat it out and turned an accusing glare on her. "Rebecca!" 

"Can you do this?" She nodded toward the boxer. "Finish him off?" 

He continued to glare. 

"Honestly?" 

"Yes." 

"I'm after Dondre, then." She raised her head enough to see the tail ends of the man's coat disappear beyond the crowd, through a doorway. 

The boxer was heading toward them, murder in his eye. Rebecca gave Phileas a slight pat of encouragement on the back, then turned and pushed her way into the crowd. The first foreign hand that touched her body as she passed received a broken finger for his pains. After that, the crowd gave her a considerable berth. She paused just as she reached the door and looked back at a roar from the crowd. 

The boxer had just landed a blow that appeared to have left Phileas dazed; her cousin had been knocked back to the rim of the crowd and was fighting his way unsteadily to his feet. The boxer, unhurried, was grinning broadly, moving forward with the air of a hunter that has finally sighted a mortally wounded prey. 

Frowning, Rebecca realized she wasn't going to make it back through the crowd in time to intervene, nor could she risk throwing a knife without endangering Phileas. Bringing her fingers to her lips, she took the one course open to her. 

She whistled, long and loud, precisely as Phileas had earlier that evening. 

There was an answering bark from Bruce, who leapt to his feet from beneath the table under which he'd been crouched, wagging his tail. He began to weave his way through the crowd, as if attempting to make his way toward her. 

There was also a momentary pause in the boxer, who looked directly at her in response to the whistle, meeting her eyes across the crowd. Puzzled, he stared for a second too long. When he turned back to his prey, he received a fist directly in the face for his distraction. His neck snapped back and he staggered. Phileas pressed the initiative, catching the giant on the chin before defensive hands could be raised. And he struck a second time; there was the weakness, exploited at every opportunity. 

Rebecca didn't much think of the chances of the boxer regaining his feet, especially as Phileas kept moving forward to press his advantage. There was no exchange of blows, just a brutal, relentless pummeling, not unlike what had been done to Verne. The boxing match had turned into a beating. Although Phileas would not prolong it beyond time, this type of revenge was something of which Verne would not approve. 

What Verne would never be told could not possibly cause him any grief. As for herself - Rebecca felt momentary satisfaction for bringing about the boxer's downfall, but the feeling _was_ only momentary. 

There was still the child . . . . 

The door led to a thin wooden hall, the only light from the tavern area. She left it slightly ajar and that thin sliver of light from the tavern became a beacon in the darkness. Rebecca paused only long enough to let her eyes become accustomed to the gloom, then began to make her way down the hall with even steps. 

The floorboards creaked, the wood on the walls was splintered; she could feel her fingertips pick up soot from previously hung lanterns. The tavern smells followed her here, merging into a combination of stale wine, and vomit, and urine, with the addition of a mustiness from the lack of fresh air and windows. The maze of corridors and small rooms might as well have been underground, twelve to twenty feet from an outer wall or window on one side and who knew how far inside from the other. There was no day or night in this place, except for the coveted rooms near the walls and the garrets that lined the roofline. She had thought Verne unfortunate in his housing and now she was forced to revise her option - he lived in a palace compared with the souls who might exist here. 

Many of those who would live in such a place did so from desperation, needing a place to hide from the law, from creditors, from each other . . . but the cry of an infant, quickly hushed, made that realization all the more poignant. It was the others, trapped here by their family ties, by the lack of anything better ever being offered to them, that she should consider. Children like Aimee knew only two worlds - this 'home' and the grand houses of the men who abused them. She could not save them all. 

But she could save this one. 

It would have been prudent to bring a light. The wall ended, the corridor twisting, turning, breaking into small hallways with doors and sometimes nothing more than curtains to delineate private rooms from the passageway. Rebecca took the time to peer into them - those that were not bolted or barred - little more than closets with chamberpots, some so small she wondered that anyone could lie full-length upon bedding. Sometimes there were lights and frightened eyes shone at her from the near darkness - hard-faced women with sleepy children clutched in their laps. In others there were sounds that told her she did not need to investigate too much farther, that this was not her goal. No one was disturbed by her prying, nor interested in her; such searches of this place were not uncommon. She found herself calling, "Aimee," softly, voice hushed in awe of the terrible oppression of the place, as well as the understanding that this was not her world and ambush was not only possible, but likely. 

Minutes passed and yet seemed like hours. She held her breath in the darkness and listened to words, to sounds, to sobs, all but despairing of finding the child in this warren. And yet she could not return to Phileas, could not return to Verne and to the Aurora, without Aimee. 

There was a sound that caught her attention, a rhythmic padding and heavy breathing. Floorboards creaked behind her. Rebecca flattened herself against the wall and made her way around a corner. Her own breath held, she listened as her pursuer approached. When she shot out from her hiding place, there was no neck or chest or shoulder to receive her blow and she nearly toppled headfirst into the wall, having been blocked by something just short of waist-high that was soft, furry, and deceptively well-muscled. She fell, caught herself, and found a blast of hot breath on her neck. 

Bruce touched a cold wet nose to her upraised hand. His tongue seemed to wrap around her fingers, a head turn instantly coating them in slime. Hugging the animal, Rebecca wiped her fingers as best she could on his coat. "Good boy," she murmured. "_Very_ good boy." 

The tail thumped against one of the corridor walls and she made her way to her feet if only to move the massive creature to the center of the hall. "Well, Bruce, what shall we do now?" 

The dog nuzzled the back of her knee and pressed close to her. Placing her hand at the back of his head, she scratched him absently while she thought. Tracking Aimee using Bruce would be ideal - he'd brought them this far after all - but they'd left the nightshirt with the child's scent back at their starting point. She had no idea if the dog could still track on the previous scent. 

What else was there to do? 

"Bruce?" She placed a hand beneath his head, lifting it upward slightly. "We need to find Aimee, Bruce. Fetch. Fetch Aimee." 

Unlike the last time, there was a pause. Bruce took in a long breath of air - she could feel the lungs expand beneath her left hand, which rested on the dog's side. The head swung back and forth and then lowered to the floor. The sound of sniffing reminded her of the clockwork-like, mechanical noises that would issue from one of Passepartout's smaller experiments. 

Then Bruce began to move. This was not the headlong dash they had experienced earlier, but a slow sweep of the floor as the dog, head lowered and nose down, began to follow her instructions. Rebecca fumbled in his fur for the collar and then for the lead, making an attempt to wrap her hands around it but giving herself a chance to release the leash if Bruce should take to his paws at full speed again. 

He turned around, leading her back over the path she'd taken into the warren. She followed without question. Bruce had far more information than she at the moment, and his senses gave him a form of sight she lacked. At first she feared his bellow would echo from the walls, but he remained quiet, only sniffing, whining, and occasionally growling as he tugged her insistently through the corridors. 

Rebecca allowed Bruce his head and kept her own senses tuned to the other sounds and presences around them. When he paused at a doorway or curtain, she waited for a heartbeat. If Bruce didn't move on, she investigated further, only to find nothing of interest. Habitation meant harshly muttered excuses in return for hostile looks, or sincere, calming words when facing a wide-eyed child. And still Bruce moved on. 

There was no way to hasten the process, much as she would have desired it. It occurred to her that Phileas, after hopefully having defeated the pugilist and fighting his way out of the crowd of well-wishers, would have little hope of finding her. Perhaps it would be more prudent to find her way back to the tavern and begin again. There would be a dozen exits to a place like this. Dondre may have already fled and, God forbid, have taken Aimee with him as a form of insurance. 

Bruce stopped. It was so sudden that she stumbled, placing her hands on his back to keep from falling. Realizing that his neck had risen as if he were about to bay, Rebecca dropped to her knees at his head and wrapped her arms around the massive snout. "Sssh! Bruce, be quiet. Quiet. Good boy. Quiet." 

The dog whined under the constraints of her embrace, nuzzling against her. She carefully released her hold on his snout, and when he did nothing more than pant, she scratched his head between the mismatched ears and whispered again, "Good boy, Bruce." 

It was a curtain rather than a door, and the sound of muffled sobbing could be heard - a child's voice. A slight touch on the end of the curtain showed only blackness - no light had been lit. 

"Aimee?" 

Her voice was soft, meant to be reassuring. The sobbing stopped, then seemed more subdued, as if dampened by a pillow or a fist. 

"Aimee, it's Rebecca." She took a step into the darkness, feeling her way. Another step brought a wooden post to hand - some sort of bedstead or sleeping cupboard or storage cabinet? "Remember, you met me last night. We went shopping today and had lunch at the park. I'm Jules' friend." 

There was a choked sob, unmuffled, from somewhere just down and to her left. "They - they - hurt - Jules." 

"Yes, they did, darling. But the doctor is taking care of him and he'll be better soon. He's worried about you." She knelt now, brushing aside refuse from the floor - a blanket, some boots, a pipe perhaps - to find the edge of the wooden frame. "Where are you, Aimee?" 

"Here. I'm here. Rebecca, he broke my doll! And she didn't cry or anything!" 

Something brushed her arm. Rebecca stilled and brought her hands together, finally catching hold of the child's hand between her own fingers. That led to the rest of the arm and a scrawny body that molded against her. Arms moved to encircle her neck. There was the scent of soap and wet tears as a face was pressed beneath her cheek. 

"I want Jules," said Aimee, in a half-sob. 

"He very much wants to see you, too," answered Rebecca, tightening her embrace and choking back the break in her own voice. Little sense to cry now. Perhaps later, when this was over. 

Yes. Later. 

"Best to get you out of here," she said, a little more sharply than she intended. Rebecca grasped the wooded frame, pulling herself upward to compensate for the extra weight in her arms. "And perhaps a light. Aimee, is there a candle here?" 

"Yes. But I'm not allowed--" 

The child wasn't crying any longer - it made things easier. "Can you find it for me?" 

Aimee struggled down from her arms. There were sounds in the darkness, then a small lump of wax was pressed into Rebecca's hand. She pulled one of the phosphorus matches from her kit and lit the wick. 

It was not such a bright light, but sufficient for the purpose. Bruce's head was stuck beneath the curtain, his nose sniffing as if it had a mind of its own, pointed toward Aimee. The child moved behind her, one hand around Rebecca's waist, peering out at the intruder. 

"It's all right," said Rebecca, dropping to her knee again and placing an arm around Aimee. "That's Bruce. He's a friend. He helped us find you." 

"Jules?" asked the child, turning her face toward Rebecca. 

She hadn't known what to expect. Tear stains, certainly, perhaps a swath of dirt. There had been a bruise on the left cheek, fading this morning but darkened again. The right cheek was matched by a scratch, probably the result of a slap. 

"Not Jules," said Rebecca absently. It took an effort not to raise a hand to the child's face, not to touch the new marks, not to pull the child into another embrace. "Jules was sleeping. Phileas and I --" 

Aimee had moved her hand toward Bruce's snout, but jerked back as the dog shifted its head toward the door, its body moving to the far side of the curtain and into the corridor. There was a short, sharp bark beyond the curtain, followed by a low growl. Rebecca was on her feet before a second had passed, the child moved behind her, a knife shifting down into her left hand, the candle still held - fingers hiding most of the dim flame - in her right. 

"I would be very much obliged, Rebecca, if you would refrain from putting a knife in my ribs." 

Such a sense of relief filled her at the sound of Phileas' voice that she almost closed her hand upon the candle and snuffed the flame. A flick of her wrist set the knife back into place in its sheathe. "Yes, Phileas - I've found her. She's here." 

The curtain was shifted to one side and he paused there, shirt partially rebuttoned where possible, rolling down his sleeves. His gaze, however, was for Aimee, who was still partially hidden behind Rebecca. "Any sign of Dondre?" 

"None." 

Phileas looked down as Bruce stuck his massive head beneath the curtain again, tongue hanging out of his mouth as he greeted Phileas by trailing a new lead of slime across his boots. "A good tracker, but a poor watchdog." 

"You're friend, not foe," chided Rebecca. 

"At least he thinks so." Phileas didn't move forward, remaining in place. 

The action puzzled her until Rebecca realized that Aimee was still hiding behind her - only one eye peered carefully past the formidable bulwark of her fighting attire. After placing the candle on the wooden crate to her left, Rebecca turned to pick up the child . . . but Aimee backed away. Fingers pressed to her mouth, she was watching Phileas with wide eyes. 

Her throat tightening, Rebecca stole a quick glance at him, wondering at this continued reticence. "Do you think . . . could he have touched her . . . could he . . . ." The words wouldn't quite form to bring so horrible a thought into common speech. 

There was a sudden darkness behind his eyes. "Would it matter now?" Kneeling, but remaining where he was, Phileas said softly, "Come here, Aimee. It's time we took you to back to Verne." 

There was the slightest break in his voice when he spoke, the tonal infraction imperceptible to anyone but her. At first the child didn't move, as if she were mesmerized, her eyes fixed on his . . .but then she launched herself across the small space and into his arms. Far easily than she would have thought possible, Phileas scooped Aimee up as if the move were second nature to him. 

"Time to go," agreed Rebecca, taking a step toward him. 

Phileas held up the flat of his hand, stopping her. "No. Not quite yet." 

That's when she heard growling. 

"Whistle for Bruce," hissed Phileas. "Now!" 

Rebecca did so, placing two of her fingers in her mouth. The ear-piercing shriek echoed in the small space so that even Aimee placed her hands over her ears. The curtain shifted and partially tore away as Bruce came barreling through it, misjudging the distance and skidding into her feet. 

Rebecca thought herself prepared for the hundred-odd pounds of uncontrolled canine and she was, generally giving little ground as the animal drove her back into the wall. It was as she picked up his leash that the candle flame caught the glint of a gun barrel in the hall and revealed a shadowy figure behind it. 

Releasing a small whimper, Aimee ducked her head into Phileas' shoulder, turning her face away. There was a small gun in Phileas left hand, taken from his boot-top - it amazed Rebecca to think he'd been in such a furious brawl with it still in place. He could have blown off his foot, for heaven's sake! 

And now it was gun against gun . . . plus the knife in her hand. She hand only to shift her wrist and-- 

"Rebecca, would you be so kind as to take Aimee from me?" 

Damn the man. She could take Dondre with the knife. She _knew_ she could. 

And she'd hesitated a second too long. Not daring to take his eyes from Dondre, Phileas repeated stiffly, "Rebecca. If you _would_ be so kind." 

He needed his hands free, that much was understood between them. In other circumstances she might have fought him on the matter. He'd certainly hear about this later, in great depth and detail, but for now there was a dog and a child to protect. 

Rebecca pried Aimee from Phileas' shoulder, all the while keeping taut hold of Bruce's leash. The dog was alert, looking from her to Phileas and back again, then growling low in his throat when Dondre stepped toward the room. 

"That's close enough," ordered Phileas. With the slightest motion of his right hand, he indicated she should move into the multilevel sleeping closet. His gaze and his attention, however, remained centered on Dondre. "We've settled this matter. I've won - the child's mine." 

"You've won the child," snarled Dondre, "but where's my protection now? What's to keep you from coming after me? No, it's not settled, not settled by half." 

"We've reached another impasse." Phileas stepped out into the hall, forcing Dondre back, out of candle range. "I would imagine you have a suggestion?" 

His hand reached up and closed what remained of the curtain. She could see his shoulder and the slight movement that told her he'd changed the gun to his right hand. He was good with either, but favored the right. A better line of draw when the muzzle flashed, he'd claimed. 

"Like gentleman?" asked Dondre, something eager in his voice. 

No. 

"This _is_ a matter of honor," agreed Phileas. 

Rebecca swallowed and held Aimee close against her, not daring to speak the words aloud. Damn him and his ideals. Damn him for wanting his cake and eating it, too - observing the formalities and yet taking this notion of an eye for an eye down to the last blessed level. There were no seconds here. This was not the break of dawn in an agreed upon field covered with dew soaked grass. Only Phileas could be said to be dressed for the occasion and even he under-dressed at the moment. 

There was so much that could happen, so much that could go wrong. 

Bruce whined pitifully and Rebecca patted the rough and dirty padding in the floor bunk, getting the animal to join her. Phileas had been right - there was some protection in this dank, filthy hole. Better than being wounded by a stray shot. She could think of no place more inappropriate for such an event - a matter of honor between gentlemen. 

Dondre was no gentleman. Perhaps that's why Phileas seemed to pursue the matter so eagerly. 

She tried not to see the candle's reflection in their boots beneath the bottom edge of the curtain as they stood back to back. Dondre's voice was counting - but he'd never reach ten. He'd turn before that, giving himself an advantage in the almost total darkness. 

The counting continued - at five, now. 

Rebecca took the advantage from him, bringing her right hand down flat over the flame of the candle, smothering it. She could barely see the gray wisp of rising smoke and smelled the clean scent of the wick giving way to darkness. 

With the darkness came a cry of surprise, a shot. 

Aimee screamed and clutched her tightly. 

Another shot, the sound of a body falling heavily upon a wooden floor. 

A moan, half-words and solid footsteps. 

A final shot. 

Silence, but for more steps and the whisper of the curtain being drawn aside. 

"Rebecca?" 

"Here," she answered wearily. It was an effort to haul herself up with the child attached to her, but she managed. Phileas' hand rested lightly on her shoulder as if locating her, then he peeled Aimee from her grasp. She took hold of Bruce's leash, tugged on it fruitlessly, then whistled. She heard the dog lumber to his feet and felt the comforting body beneath her hand. Aimee was whimpering quietly and she heard Phileas whisper nonsense to the child in an effort to comfort her. They walked through the dark hallways, Bruce leading them back to the tavern. 

Phileas' jacket and vest still remained in the outer room - Rebecca picked them up as they walked past. Dondre's champion was gone. The crowd parted for them, allowing them to pass. And why shouldn't they? Phileas had won, after all, and claimed his prize. They'd all heard the shots. If Dondre had been a poor sport, he had only himself to blame for his own end. His body would appear on a rubbish tip in a day or two, picked clean of anything of worth. 

The adrenaline rush had passed. Phileas moved forward and she followed, Bruce wandering on his leash like an over-sized, multi-directional carriage that had a will of its own. Rebecca knew she could not have consciously retraced their steps if she'd tried, but Phileas seemed to know the way, Bruce occasionally loping ahead to herd Phileas away from an alley and into another street. The journey back seemed to stretch into hours . . . but there, ahead, was the lift and the Aurora, awaiting their return. 

Rebecca stared down at the alley as it slipped into the darkness beneath them. "We shall have a discussion about this later," she warned, without much passion in her voice. 

"Tea or port?" 

His answer was equally as drained. Rebecca closed her eyes for a moment, considering. Tea discussions were often clear-headed and concise, leading to rifts that could last for days. Port discussions, on the other hand, were loud, boisterous affairs - or as boisterous as Phileas would allow himself to become - that ended only when there was no more port to hand and/or one of the combatants had fallen asleep or into a drunken stupor. 

"Port," she decided firmly. "After my mission." 

"Ah, yes. Your mission." 

What more was to be said for the moment? Phileas waved away Passepartout when he tried to take the child from him. She expected him to deposit her on the chaise lounge in the salon, but instead he headed for the stairs. 

"Miss Rebecca, what is--?" 

"It's all right, Passepartout," she said softly, following her cousin. Then she turned at the stairway and added, "We should know where we're headed in a little while. Could you manage some tea in the meantime? And something meaty for Bruce - he'd best stay on the lower deck for the moment." 

"Of course," he answered promptly, with a slight bow. "And hot chocolat for the littles girl?" 

"I think she'll be too sleepy to drink it. Thank you, Passepartout." 

Phileas had already entered the room by the time she rounded the top of the stairs. She stood at the door and saw him carefully deposit a sleepy-eyed Aimee beside Jules on the narrow cot. Dr. Picot stood to one side and met her eyes, nodding toward Phileas, who collapsed into a chair, propped his elbow on his knee, and rested his forehead in his hand. 

She moved to stand behind him and placed her hand lightly on his shoulder. "Passepartout should be bringing tea shortly. I've told him we should have a decision on a course by then." 

"Something else to decide," said Phileas, his tone weary beyond measure. 

"If you like, I'll tell him to send us in circles for a bit." 

"No." He took her hand from his shoulder, squeezed it gently in his own, and then released it. "We don't have the time." Sitting straighter in the chair, he asked, "How is your patient, doctor?" 

"Well enough. Sleeping peacefully, at any rate, but he'll need care for some time." 

Phileas took a slow breath, then glanced up at Rebecca. "Duty calls, yes?" 

"Yes," she answered sadly. 

"Then if it would be possible, Dr. Picot, I'd ask that you arrange the appropriate care, for as long as it will be required. I will, of course, cover any fees." 

Dr. Picot nodded slightly in agreement, then cleared his throat. "And if I may ask a favor of you, Monsieur Fogg?" 

Rebecca walked over to the doctor and took his hand. "Anything within our power, sir. We're in your debt, for your care of Jules." 

"Yes. Well." To her amusement, the doctor flushed slightly. "That's my life's work, mademoiselle, and I thank you for having brought me back to it this night. But there's a favor I would ask. About the child--?" 

"What about the child?" asked Phileas, his upright posture suddenly less due to formality than interest . . . and perhaps alarm. 

"Jules told me that you were looking for a place for the girl." The doctor folded his hands together, as if he'd rehearsed the words and had prepared himself for the speech in their absence. "There's a doctor of my acquaintance in Dijon with a thriving practice as a surgeon; he and his wife lost their only daughter last year to a wasting disease. His wife can have no more children and their house has been the emptier for it." 

Something in Rebecca's heart had stilled at the first question - she'd met Phileas' gaze, but his eyes had remained locked with the doctor's throughout the speech, his expression concerned, interested . . . damn his indifference! 

A percentage of his immediate reaction could be easily tagged as civility - Phileas was sometimes rude in jest or when annoyed, but never when faced with a man of breeding such as Dr. Picot, particularly after that man had done them such a great service. There was, perhaps, a certain percentage that could be laid at the doorstep of outright weariness; her cousin had just fought a man twice his size, beaten him at his own sport, then instigated an impromptu duel in absolute darkness with that monstrous pimp . . . . 

Better not to think of that. Definitely a port discussion, to be sure. She might even use some of those new phrases she'd picked up this evening. 

No, it wasn't indifference. He was seriously considering the matter. And she had to put a stop to it. 

With her most charming smile in place, she gestured down at Aimee, saying, "This can surely wait until later, Phileas. The child is exhausted - she needs rest. Then there's Jules to consider, with his injuries . . . ?" 

He would not look at her, would not meet her eyes. Phileas stared at the doctor, as if taking the measure of the man's word. "And he is . . . a good man?" 

"I have found him such, yes. His wife, too, is very loving. I met them many years ago, shortly after the birth of their daughter. The loss of her from their lives left a terrible void." Dr. Picot raised the back of his hand to his nose and sniffed for a moment - Rebecca had the impression that he was trying to overcome the threatening exhibition of the heartfelt emotion they could hear within his words. After a second, he added, "I don't think you'll find a better accommodation for the little one, monsieur; they will treat her as if she were their own. And in the home of a doctor . . . she will find understanding she would not find elsewhere." 

"Still," said Phileas thoughtfully, his gaze falling to the bed, "there is Verne to consider. I don't know his wishes. At our parting this morning, we--" he smiled ruefully at Rebecca, "we had not come to terms on this matter." 

Lying was part of what she had been bred to do - for what was espionage but the task of weaving an elaborate web of deception, setting it alight, and then walking through the burning tatters of words and deeds to freedom on the other side? Rebecca lied _very_ well. Well enough, in fact, to occasionally convince Phileas that black was white and that no one in China drank tea. It was one of her gifts. 

She could tell Phileas that she didn't know what Verne thought or felt about the matter - they'd discussed it only in passing. She could play upon his guilt - he'd not caused the attack in the alley or the abduction of Aimee, and yet she knew he'd claimed that upon his own conscience, as a debt owed. 

Of course he had . . . she'd done that, too. It would not be hard to win this concession now, with these two weapons at her disposal. And he was tired, weary of making decisions. One more arrow in her quiver. It could win them a few days, perhaps a week more . . . . 

It would be so easy. 

"Jules . . . said." Even as that winsome, inner demon cajoled her to be selfish, to be stealthful, to use her arts and crafts to their fullest measure, to _lie_ . . . Rebecca could not. Nor could she look at Phileas, letting her gaze rest upon Verne and the child, each lost in a forgetful slumber. "Jules said that he would leave the matter to your discretion. I warned him that you'd return this evening with rooms rented and a nanny hired." She forced a smile, despite the tightness in her throat, and turned her gaze to Phileas. "You've not only proven me right, you've gone one better. If this _is_ the place for her, Phileas, we don't have the right to keep her from it." 

There was, in the instant she looked at him--before the civil, genteel demeanor could return--something in his eyes that was far from indifferent, far from disinterested. It was as selfish and as personal as the desire she held deep within her own heart. 

Dear Lord, had he _wanted_ her to lie? 

She was saved from pursuing that inquiry by a happy accident of childhood - Aimee had shifted as she slept, nearly falling from the bed. When Rebecca moved to catch her, the child awakened in her arms with a soft cry. She yawned and rubbed her eyes as she was gently set down upon the edge of the bed. "Rebecca?" A quick turn and a half breath - she caught sight of Verne, sleeping. "Oh." 

"You see, we brought you back to Jules," said Rebecca gently. "I told you the doctor was taking care of him." 

Small fingers reached out to touch Verne's bandaged hand, then the bruise on his cheek. "He's sleeping?" 

"Yes, he's sleeping," agreed Rebecca, forcing what she hoped was a comforting smile. "And you should be sleeping, too; it's very late for little girls to be awake." 

Aimee seemed prepared to say more, but then noticed the doctor standing behind Rebecca. Her eyes widened at the appearance of this stranger and she looked back at Verne. Whether she was seeking protection or intended to protect _him_, Rebecca couldn't say. 

"It's all right, Aimee," said Phileas, in a quiet, even tone. "That's Dr. Picot. He's been a very good friend to us, particularly to Verne. We owe him our thanks." 

When Phileas spoke, Aimee nearly fell from the bed again, turning to locate him. She watched him for a moment, then looked back at Dr. Picot. She lowered her gaze, as if thinking, then looked back over her shoulder at Phileas again. "Is he a gentleman?" 

And were they to answer that question without insulting the good doctor? Rebecca stepped forward quickly and her hand on the child's shoulder to reassure her. "He won't hurt you. See how he bandaged Jules? Dr. Picot is a kind man." 

"Dondre told me that some of my gentlemen were doctors." 

So matter-of-fact. Then again, it was all that Aimee knew. It was time that she knew better. 

"Let me introduce you properly," said Rebecca, taking her hand and leading her from the bed. 

Still not quite awake, Aimee went willingly, but drew closer to Rebecca as they approached the doctor. He'd long since shed his coat and Rebecca thought his loosened tie and partially unbuttoned vest gave him an air of charming dishevelment. "Aimee, may I present Dr. Picot. Dr. Picot, this is our very dear friend, Aimee." 

"I am charmed, mademoiselle," said Dr. Picot gravely, holding out his hand. 

Aimee carefully fit her small one into his grip, watching him all the while as he shook it, then drew her hand back to her chest and held it there after he released her. 

The doctor glanced at Rebecca, as if uncertain what to say. "Jules thinks very often of you, Aimee. He'll be glad to know that you're safe." 

Aimee leaned forward, her voice low as if she were telling him a secret. "They broke Jules, like they broke my doll. But worse." After a worried glance over her shoulder, she asked anxiously, "Can you fix him?" 

"I have done my best, mademoiselle. Now Jules must rest, so that his body will heal." When she continued to stare at him, he chuckled lightly and added, "Yes. He will be fixed. But he must rest." 

"We'll take care of Jules," promised Rebecca. She knelt down beside Aimee and placed a hand on each of the child's shoulders. "You trust us to take care of him, don't you?" 

Aimee nodded, her gaze again going toward the bed where Verne slept. She yawned and rubbed her eye with the back of her hand, then looked up at Rebecca again. "When will I have to go back?" 

"Never!" said Phileas, in such a sharp tone that Aimee started, one hand reaching for Rebecca's arm for support. Realizing that he'd unnerved the child, he rubbed the flat of his palm over his face and then shook his head. "I'm sorry - I didn't mean --" 

Rebecca was quite certain that she would have had difficulty dealing with the emotionally naked, honest expression that Phileas had fixed on Aimee if it had been directed at her. But Aimee seemed oblivious to that. The child's brow was furrowed. She glanced at Rebecca, and then back at Phileas, as if trying to solve a puzzle. 

"But I belong to Dondre." 

"I promise, you will never see Dondre again." 

His right hand was clenched into a fist as he spoke. Only that, and the barest edge to his speech, revealed anything of his anger. His tone was moderated, a quiet voice befitting the status of a sickroom and a conversation with a frightened, sleepy child. 

And still Aimee was staring at Phileas as if she knew there was something more to this, not quite understanding. Nor, Rebecca hoped, would she ever. It was quite a burden to carry, to know that someone had killed another human being to avenge you, to keep you safe. 

She reached out to draw the child into her arms, but Aimee moved away, taking small deliberate steps toward where Phileas was seated. Rebecca glanced at the doctor in concern, then rose to her feet and shadowed the child, uncertain as to what she might do. Phileas was simply watching her with a bemused expression, a bitter edge to his uncertain smile, as if he knew the child would bolt from him at any minute. 

She paused within reach of him and placed a small hand on his knee. "Do I belong to you, now?" 

"No." His movements slow, Phileas lifted her hand and placed it back upon her chest, over her heart. "No one owns you." 

"I don't have to go back?" 

"Never," he repeated, his hand still resting atop her own, over her heart. "We will find you a family." He glanced up to meet Rebecca's gaze, then looked over at Dr. Picot as if for confirmation, before returning his attention to Aimee. "You will live in a house with a mother and a father. You will have you own bed and your own dolls. And you will be happy." 

"Will it be a glass house? And can Jules live there, too?" 

Fighting to stay dry-eyed, Rebecca found her cousin looking up at her - he had no answer. "Perhaps," she said, touching the Aimee's hair lightly. "Perhaps." 

That was what her mother had said to her when she was a child. It was not 'no,' or 'never,' but 'someday,' 'maybe.' It was an answer to ease fears, to quiet tears . . . an answer for a little girl to dream upon. 

A little girl, with soft hair that curled at the ends. 

"A cage," Rebecca said very quietly, "is not _always_ a bad thing." 

When Phileas looked up at her and echoed, "Perhaps," she wasn't entirely certain whether he was answering Aimee, or herself. 

The child seemed to have come to her own decision. Taking a step closer to him she announced, with an unexpected gravity of tone, "I don't think you're a gentleman, Philly-ass." 

"Indeed?" he asked, in a voice so soft that it was almost a whisper. 

"Yes." Without warning, Aimee climbed into his lap and settled her head against his neck - to his credit, Phileas didn't move a muscle. She yawned and added sleepily, "But you must take better care of Jules." 

"I shall endeavor to do just that," he answered, looking up with a grin and meeting Rebecca's gaze. 

"Good." 

His arms around the child, Phileas rested his chin upon her hair lightly, his head tilted slightly so that he could meet Rebecca's gaze. "Tell Passepartout to take us to Dijon." 

Her own voice was hushed as she watched Aimee's eyelids fluttering - gravity was winning that war. She glanced back toward the doctor, who had the back of his hand to Verne's cheek, checking for signs of fever. "Are we certain, Phileas?" 

"At the moment, I'm certain of only three things - that you have a mission awaiting you--" 

"Damn the mission," she hissed, but then looked away at his reproachful glance, for neither of them believed she'd walk away from her duty. 

"And that Verne will need care for a time. I'll trust Dr. Picot to arrange that when we return to Paris this morning." He leaned his head against the chair back and smiled weakly. "If you'd be so kind as to give Passepartout my instructions . . . and ask him to prepare my cabin - our good doctor is probably in need of more than a few hours rest at this point." 

"What about you?" 

"I'm comfortable, at the moment." Phileas shifted slightly, grimacing as he moved Aimee to a better situation across his lap, then sighed. "_Quite_ comfortable, thank you." 

"All right." Rebecca walked the few steps toward the door, placed her hand on the knob, then paused. Something that he'd said . . . . Turning back to Phileas, she asked, "What was the third thing?" 

"Oh. That." Closing his eyes, he added, "If the child didn't leave my protection by tomorrow morning, I should find it impossible to ever let her go." 

Had Phileas been less weary, more in possession of himself, he would never have said those words. His eyes were still closed and Rebecca suspected that he had been barely wakeful these past few minutes. She would erase the comment from her memory - the words had never been spoken. 

Yet after she closed the door to the room behind her, Rebecca stood in the hall and leaned her forehead against it for a moment. Her eyelids shutting of their own volition, she allowed his words to echo one last time in her heart. 

Perhaps. 

It was time to head downstairs. There was the cabin to arrange for Dr. Picot, a heading for Dijon to be set, a proper bed prepared for the child . . . . 

Perhaps. 

She wondered, not without reason, how fate could be so unkind and so unfair to those blessed enough to be born with wings. 

**** 

End of Chapter Twelve 

**** 


	13. Chapter 13

**** 

**Chapter 13 - _In which a reason is found_**

It was unusual for a lowly student to earn such a prized place in the café during late autumn - a table by the window. Yet during each of the past five days Jules had wandered across the threshold to find himself immediately accosted by the owner and led directly to this spot. He ate, he drank, and yet was never presented with a bill. Arriving after his last lecture class of the day, he spent a goodly portion of his hours staring out the window. His notebook would lie open just past his elbow, a law book rested on the table before him, and his eyes were fixed on the street outside or on the sky barely visible over the roofline of his garret across the street. 

When it grew too dark to see anything outside, his friends would be stop in. They ate, they drank, they made him laugh . . . and they received their bills with better humor than he'd seen in the past. Theon and Felix argued interminably about everything, but would occasionally gang up on Norris, who often arrived the worse for drink and more often than not left surprisingly sober. Viletta and Romaine would hang from his shoulder, steal morsels of food from his plate and feed them to him, beg to leaf through his notebook - he enjoyed every minute of that, particularly the jealous looks of his other friends. 

But as the night wore on his friends would slip away. Always one would remain to take his arm and help him across the street and up the steps to his room. There were simple excuses as to why they should be invited in for a moment's time - looking at new sketches that didn't exist, borrowing a book they'd never need for a lecture, finishing up an argument started at the café to which he hadn't been a party. They'd fetch water or take care of other chores until he became annoyed or embarrassed at their attentions . . . and then they'd take their leave. 

Some were better at it than others. Romaine had hinted rather broadly on at least two occasions that she'd be more than happy to stay the night. As beautiful as she was, Jules knew the offer was born of pity, for until this point Romaine had eyes for no one but Theon . . . or Theon's father's estates. And, worse, how would he deal with Theon after that? He'd pretended to be deaf and blind to her suggestions, thanked her for her help, and let out a sigh of relief when she was finally on the other side of the door. 

Which left him alone. 

It was so much better than the prior week spent mostly abed, with only a dull-witted attendant to care for him. Dosings of laudanum left him listless and yet incapable of action; he'd pick up a pen only to have it fall from his fingers. Even when he'd managed to engage his warder in banal conversation, he'd awaken to find that he'd dozed off in the middle of a sentence. 

The two visits from Dr. Picot had cheered him immeasurably, even with the accompanying discomfort of having dressings changed. Hearing something of what had happened while he had been asleep was helpful. The doctor took great pains to assure him that Aimee had been placed in a proper and loving home, but the man was far from a storyteller. 

Staring at the ceiling later, Jules tried to reconstruct the events from the doctor's measured, colorless words. Dr. Picot and the Foggs had awakened the young doctor and his wife from their sleep with an unexpected offer - a new addition to their family. Explanations would have been required - Jules could only imagine what the Foggs might have said about Aimee's history, what warnings they might have given while trying to remain circumspect in their ineffably British fashion. 

And yet nothing they said seemed to matter to the couple - their hearts were set upon keeping the child, sight unseen. From the moment Fogg returned to the house with a soundly sleeping Aimee in his arms, there was no doubt she had found a home. How could it have been otherwise; she had won Jules' heart even more quickly, had she not? 

There had been a discussion as to whether the child should be awakened for a brief good-bye. Odd to think that it was Miss Fogg who argued in favor of leaving immediately, the doctor concurring and the two overriding Fogg, who had agreed to abide by a majority opinion. 

It was at this point the narrative always halted, for the doctor had taken the use of Fogg's cabin on the trip back to Paris, leaving his hosts quietly discussing matters in the salon. What Jules would have given to have been a fly on the wall at that time, instead of uselessly unconscious in the room above! 

Dr. Picot always described descending from the lift to the awakening street before his city home, the servants and early-rising costermongers and tradesman left agape as he stepped from the platform, to the street, to his front doorstep without a second's hesitation. Brushing aside the household servants, he'd moved directly for the stairs, pausing only to kiss his wife on the upper landing and, he'd said with some pride, confounding her utterly. But it was not until he'd had reached his goal, the nursery, and held his young son in his arms that his story truly ended. 

Jules repeated the story to himself so often that he swore he could reconstruct the events in his sleep, yet there were flashes that did not fit. There was the vague memory of a murmured discussion, of the bed shifting and a touch on his cheek - though he'd tried to open his eyes, he'd been so drugged as to be certain that it was only a dream. 

And again, when his eyes had opened to the morning light of the sun reflected on the ceiling of his room at Mme Ludek's. Before that thought had registered, he'd turned his head to see Fogg standing at the open shutters. His hands, bandaged - but why bandaged? - rested on his cane, his hat on the table near the window. Jules must have made a sound, because Fogg had turned to tell him, "It's done. Go back to sleep, Verne." He'd done so, only faintly recognizing that although his friend's clothing was spotless and pristine as usual, the shadowed profile had appeared weary almost beyond endurance. 

Were these dreams, feverish imaginings? Or was his mind simply tempting him with slivers of a truth he couldn't know, giving him something with which to occupy himself until his body had healed and his brain was no longer befuddled by medication? Trapped abed in his room for a week, he would have sworn they were memories and yet now . . . he couldn't be certain what the doctor had told him and what stories he had invented to pass the time and fill in the gaps. 

In those two weeks, there had been no word from the Aurora. Jules remembered that Rebecca had a mission somewhere with which he'd offered to help . . . and obviously had been unable to fulfill that promise. Had that angered her? Surely not - not the Rebecca he knew. And yet what had she done without him? Had her mission succeeded or had something gone wrong? 

If something _had_ gone wrong, would he even hear about it? If Fogg and Passepartout had escaped, of course . . . but there was always the possibility of the unthinkable. Chatsworth wouldn't consider a lowly French law student and sometime failed playwright worthy of notification. They might all be lost and he would never know. 

It was nonsense, a phantom child of his drugged sleep. But as days passed without word, Jules began to wonder. He lay in his bed, drowsed in and out of slumber, and watched the window day and night for something floating overhead. When he could walk enough to manage the stairs, and with Dr. Picot's blessing, he'd begun to haunt the café across the street - no longer able to endure the closeness of the room. As the owner served him a better vintage than he deserved and his friends laughed with him, his eyes were always wandering to the window to search for the shadow of the airship on the street outside or a glimpse of its propellers above the roofline. 

His last lecture for the week was over, the wine in the glass before him was already half gone, and the small bowl of soup that had been brought, unasked and unordered, was also untouched. The alcohol gave him certain clarity of vision in contrast with the laudanum, which had so twisted fantasy and reality around one another it took great pains for him to separate the two. Jules tapped his pencil upon the notebook and wondered whether sufficient of either, or both combined, could block the visions that plagued and enervated him. The possible outcome of the experiment was daunting - he was no lotus-eater, after all. He _wanted_ to write plays, great plays of great men and women from history, yet that would never happen if he drugged himself insensate to avoid the visions. What good were they to his writing? Through them he discovered wondrous possibilities of the future . . . but the human mind and the human heart were as closed to him as before. 

He dropped the pencil, lifted the glass for another swallow, and again considered the possibility that his father was right - that his dreams of becoming a great writer were mere fantasy. Keep his scribblings limited to the poems, speeches, and performances at family celebrations and he'd have a safe, comfortable life. What was adventure, but danger . . . hardly the life for the son of a respectable lawyer. It only resulted in injury and pain. 

Yet this time he'd not fought to save the world, or a monarch, or even a nation - he'd only tried to save the life of a child. 

As if there were any 'only' to it. 

Even his father couldn't fault him for that, although he might try. 

He glanced at the street before taking another drink. Nothing had changed . . . but was someone standing before his door, speaking with Mme Ludek? It was not so much the coat but the hat that decided him, his heart thudding in his chest as he recognized -- 

"Passepartout," he breathed, as if unable to believe his luck. Then Passepartout doffed his hat to the woman and picked up the basket he had set on the cobblestones of the street. 

"No - don't go. I'm here!" His legs were still stiff, his knees bothersome after sitting so long at the window. Jules knocked over the chair in his haste, startling both the management and the other patrons, but he barely noticed. The remainder of the glass of wine spilled as he picked up his notebook - he never heard the crash as it rolled from the side of the table and to the floor. 

"Wait!" he called. "Passepartout - wait! Don't leave!" 

Jules was a step away from the table when he remembered the law book, now stained with wine. Another step wasted as he moved back for it - the money it was worth more important than the case he was supposed to be studying for the next lecture - and then he stumbled forward again, heading for the door. The owner tried to intercept him, but he waved the man away, hobbling toward the door as far as he could, knowing that if he tried just a little harder he could get to the street and-- 

Passepartout stood in the doorway, no more than six paces before him. He was recognized with a grin and before he could cover the distance, Passepartout had grasped his forearm in greeting. 

"Jules! And you are being on your feet! It is good to see you." 

"It's good to see you, too," was all he managed for a moment. Enough to grasp his friend's hand and know that all was well - Passepartout couldn't grin like that if anything had happened to Rebecca. Even better to know that his friends hadn't forgotten him. 

"If you would not mind for me to be seated for a minute--" Passepartout dropped the basket he was carrying at his feet and released Jules' arm only to remove a handkerchief from inside his coat and mop at his forehead. "I have been walking all over Paris for the shoppings." 

"Of course," answered Jules, suddenly feeling guilty, heading back toward the table he'd abandoned only a moment before. The owner gave him a sharp look, rising to his feet with the glass-filled waste pan in his hand, then he glanced over Jules' shoulder at Passepartout before scurrying away. By the time Jules had turned, Passepartout had seated himself and was investigating the soup sitting on the table. 

"Terrible stuff," he declared, running the spoon through it, then lifting a spoonful and pouring it back into the bowl. "You have not been eating this dreadsful food? And to even be calling it _food_--no." 

Not entirely certain as to how his notebook and law book had left his arms and been placed on the table, Jules levered himself back into his chair by the window. Even the painful stiffness in his knees couldn't wipe the foolish grin he knew had to be plastered on his face. "It _is_ good to see you," he repeated. And then, curiosity getting the better of him, he leaned across the table and asked, "How was Spain?" 

Passepartout raised a finger to his lips and winked, indicating that they might be overheard, but he sat back in his chair and announced, "Verys hot. And dusty. Oh, so much dust!" He shook his head sadly, as if the very thought of it distressed him. "I am still to be washing dust out of everysthing." Placing a finger in one ear as if to clean it, he then held up a fingertip and announced in annoyance, "Dust!" 

Jules laughed in spite of himself. "And Rebecca and Fogg - they're well?" 

"Miss Rebecca, she is still being in London doing such things," Passepartout lowered his voice and leaned across the table, "such things as spies ladies do." Then he sat back in his chair. "Master Fogg, he tells me this morning that we are to be going to Paris right away, with the dusts still to be cleaned. And when we have been arrived, he says to me, 'Passepartout, you will be seeing if Verne is up to a trip to Dijon this afternoons.' I am telling him, 'Master Jules is maybes not well enough to be going to Dijon.' And Master Fogg, he is saying that I must be stopping to ask and to see with these eyes if I am thinking you are being well enough to go to Dijon." 

Suddenly finding himself under scrutiny, Jules glanced down at his closed notebook, afraid that his condition might be found wanting. Dijon, according to Dr. Picot, was where Aimee had been found a home. He remembered what Fogg had said that morning in the Aurora - when they found a place to settle Aimee, he would have to walk away, never see her again. But surely he'd be allowed to say good-bye, at the very least? 

"Well?" he asked softly, daring to look up at Passepartout. "What do you think?" 

"I am thinking that it would be a very big mistake for you not to be coming to Dijon." Rising to his feet, Passepartout disdainfully pushed away the bowl of soup. "Being as big a mistake as eating this garbage. You will be coming back to the Aurora where you will be having a proper luncheon. That you could be getting better eating such as this - pfaugh!" 

It didn't quite make sense to him - why it would be a mistake for him not to go to Dijon - but Jules wasn't about to quibble. Tucking his notebook and his soggy law book under his arm, he pushed himself up from the table again. He saw Passepartout throw something down to the table as they left, vaguely recognized the bills as franc notes, and then swung his head around to look again as they headed away, amazed at the amount of money that had been left. 

"Passepartout, that's far too much--" 

"Is enough," noted Passepartout, with no small amount of disdain. "For such bad soups, is enough." 

He might have imagined the look that passed between the café owner and Passepartout as they left, but Jules couldn't be entirely sure. His immediate concern became juggling his notebook, his law book, and the heavy basket Passepartout left in his care the moment they stepped out the door and onto the cobblestone street. 

"Is better to be finding a ride," announced Passepartout, stepping forward to flag down a passing carriage for hire. "Master Fogg is telling me this morning that I am not to have new shoes before the new year because I am wearing them out so fastly. If I am not to be having shoes, then I am to be riding after shoppings." 

The comment had been made with an insolent grin that Jules echoed, although he had a suspicion that Passepartout wasn't precisely parroting that particular conversation. It was the wonderful nature of it, the ease with which Passepartout invented reasons or excuses that something must be done _this_ way and not that. Although the reasons didn't quite salve his wounded pride, they did make it easier to accept the magnificent gesture of a chair at a café table or a carriage ride. 

Passepartout made great show of huffing and puffing in exhaustion. He put his feet up on the opposite seat to the point where he was barely sitting at all, but was stretched the distance across the two seats as if lying flat on a board. It was an amazing display and made Jules laugh aloud . . . until he remembered the money. 

Two hundred francs. He's borrowed the money from Fogg - Passepartout had delivered it to him that glorious morning when they'd all set out in the carriage - and then Dondre had stolen it from him. He'd not thought of it since. 

Today's date was two days past the agreed-upon date of repayment. 

Jules felt as if he might be ill. 

It never failed to amaze him how quickly Passepartout could shift his mood from clown, to efficient valet, to brilliant engineer . . . to friend. "Jules? You are not well? We should be making the carriage to stop?" 

He turned his head to find that Passepartout had risen to his feet, crouched beneath the roof of the carriage, one hand already on the trap link where he could contact the driver. His worried expression gave Jules another momentary pang - this was not something he could share. 

"I'll be fine," he muttered, fighting back the urge to tell Passepartout to stop the carriage and he'd walk back to his room, climb the stairs, lock the door, draw the shutters . . . and hopefully expire of acute embarrassment. It had cost him so much to even consider asking for the loan. Fogg had granted it on the favorable terms of their friendship and they'd shaken on it. To show up at the Aurora without the money . . . . 

Of course, Fogg would never mention it. Nor would he ever mention his disappointment at the failure in Jules' character, but he knew that each time he looked at Fogg he would be searching for it - in his eyes, in his words, and in the limitation of his trust. 

He was very glad, at the moment, that he hadn't eaten the soup. His stomach was still unsettled from a lack of too-solid food and the laudanum the week before, plus the wine he'd drunk this morning atop that. 

Jules expected Passepartout to attempt to cheer him with chatter and hunched down in a corner of the carriage in misery, prepared with false smiles to acknowledge the jests and an occasional mutter of agreement . . . but Passepartout remained silent. When he stole a glance over his shoulder, he saw that Passepartout was sitting properly on the seat, hands folded atop his right knee, his expression carefully neutral. 

He'd let Rebecca down about his help with her mission, borrowed money from Fogg he'd forgotten to repay, and now he'd just insulted Passepartout in refusing to tell him what was wrong, a common enough action between friends. Perhaps he could compound the situation into absurdity by pointing out a stray cat the coachman could run over. 

The trip back to the Aurora, which he'd begin with such joy, became an ordeal. It was wrong to accept the invitation to Dijon. His heart broke when he realized it meant that if he didn't see Aimee this time, he would probably never see her again. But how could he endure the normally comfortable airship ride, all the while watching Fogg for a hint of some censure about the loan? Fogg wouldn't forget about something like this - he was a sharp man when it came to money, however off-hand he might seem about the actual spending of it. 

A loan between friends. Never a lender or a borrower be, was that it? Words were so awkward in the translation - would they be more elegant in English? 

He'd been a fool. 

The carriage arrived. Jules looked out the window of the old whale-like conveyance and saw the Aurora moored in a stubby brown field. The harvest had been taken in long enough ago for even the mice to abandon some hope of a crumb of grain fallen by the wayside for grateful gathering. Passepartout descended from the carriage and disappeared around the side, to the driver. By the time he'd returned Jules was already halfway out of the carriage, swearing under his breath at the awkwardness of holding onto his law book, his notebook, and the doorframe so that he wouldn't fall if his knees gave way. Passepartout reached out a hand to help, but the hand fell away when Jules shot him a sharp look, muttering, "I _can_ do this myself." 

"Of course," was the only answer, given with a taut, polite smile. 

He could say or do nothing right today. Normally he would have matched pace with Passepartout, skittering down the slight incline from the hard-packed dirt lane to the torn earth of the harvested field. They would have talked of his new sketches and ideas, of whether a three-quarter or half-inch screw could be trusted to hold a brass plate of a certain thickness, and whether the joints of the carriage could be fitted with better springs to adjust to the vagaries of unpaved roads. Instead, Passepartout took Jules' law book from him as a matter of course, knew enough not to even try for the notebook, and walked the requisite step and a half behind, as would any servant attending to a guest of his master. If Jules slowed his pace intentionally, or unintentionally when the side of his foot nearly slid into the burrow of a small animal, Passepartout would be there to steady him, grabbing his arm until he righted himself. It was done without comment on Passepartout's part, no matter how Jules swore in annoyance at himself for needing the help or at Passepartout for providing it. 

The gangway up to the Aurora was solid and unshifting, a subtle incline that Jules found he need not attack with vigor. His heart eased as his hand brushed along the wood of the cabin exterior, so good to be home. 

That frightened him enough that he stopped without warning, suddenly aware of Passepartout exhaling close behind him as if startled and barely avoiding a collision. 

This wasn't home. He had no right to think of it as such. 

Passepartout stepped around him and held the door open for him as he limped inside. Fogg was in the salon, seated, the book in his hand already being marked and set aside. He rose and stepped forward with such a smile of greeting that it made Jules heart-sore, desperately wanting to respond in kind. 

"Verne! You're looking much better than the last time I saw you." 

The handshake was far from perfunctory, a true greeting. The strength of it surprised him and he overbalanced, his right knee failing for a second. Before he'd quite recovered, the smile had disappeared from Fogg's face and his arm was supported by a grip of steel. "Sit down." 

Passepartout had shied from taking his notebook, but Fogg was not in the least intimidated by the item . . . or perhaps he didn't quite understand what it meant to Jules. It was removed from Jules' hand, dropped to the table, and Jules was led to the chair Fogg himself had vacated upon his entrance. "No, Fogg, really - I'm fine. It was just the carriage ride, my knee stiffened up a little, that's all." 

Fogg turned on Passepartout, who was depositing the law book on the table. Having removed his own overcoat, he was standing silently, waiting for Jules' jacket. "I said you were to bring him only if he were well enough to travel." 

"No, I'm fine, really," insisted Jules, a hint of anger creeping into his voice at the unearned reprimand directed toward his friend. "Passepartout couldn't have kept me away. It was my decision to come." 

Considering the notion for a moment, Fogg nodded. "Very well." He moved aside so that Passepartout might take Jules' outer jacket from him, adding, "Tea, I should think, followed by with a light luncheon as soon as we're under way." 

"I'm not very hungry," admitted Jules, looking up at Passepartout for support. 

But Passepartout was having none of it. "Is better that you are eating," he scolded. "And not like what is being called soup in that café. I have somethings much better to bring you back to your strength." 

"Excellent," agreed Fogg. And as Passepartout left for the kitchen, dismissed to his duties, Fogg turned toward Jules. "Dr. Picot has been sending me reports on your progress. How's the rib?" 

It startled him even to think of it. Jules drew a deep breath involuntarily - but there was no pain. "After the first few days, I didn't even notice it," he admitted, with some wonder. 

"That's the way of it, or so I've been told. Uncomfortable injury. Never had bad enough luck to crack one, though the memory of bruised ones do tend to linger for a time, particularly before a downpour. If I were you," he raised an eyebrow, "I'd avoid such an injury in future." 

The serious tone, along with the idea that such an injury _could_ be avoided, caused Jules to smile. "I'll keep that in mind." 

"Do so." Fogg gestured down at Jules' trousers. "The knee still worries you?" 

"The right one, a bit. It's my own fault - Dr. Picot said I should walk for at least fifteen minutes an hour to fight the stiffness and--" he shrugged. "It's easier to sit in the café." 

"I would imagine. I wonder what Dr. Picot would say to that excuse. Or, for that matter, Rebecca. Ah, the tea." 

Passepartout had entered the salon with a silver tray balanced on his hand. Fogg picked up the book he'd tossed to the table and removed it to the sideboard as the tea service was set in place. Passepartout poured with little fuss and some small amount of ceremony. 

Jules took the cup with a grateful smile and murmured thanks, but Passepartout's demeanor continued to be respectful - it was unnerving. "Passepartout mentioned that Rebecca is still in London. Is everything all right? Her last mission?" 

"Went as well as those things are likely to go. Chatsworth was perturbed about the delay - I think he's rather playing the schoolmaster at the moment, keeping the errant student behind after class to sweep up chalk dust." Fogg chuckled under his breath, somehow managing to handle both the thin china teacup and the saucer without rattling one against the other - a proper English skill Verne had yet to acquire. "I think she'd be concerned to hear that you weren't exercising as Dr. Picot has ordered. Trust me, Verne, Rebecca's concern is not something to be acquired easily or handled lightly." 

"I'll remember that." 

"Just do the exercises as prescribed and we'll say nothing of it to Rebecca, for the moment." 

The warning was steel in a velvet glove, something he might have said to his own brother. Jules stared down at the tea, then put the cup and saucer back on the table, afraid that it might choke him. When he looked up he realized that Passepartout had stepped away - perhaps gone back into the kitchen. 

"Yes, I know," said Fogg, placing his own teacup down on the table. "Excellent coffee, but he does make a hash of a decent cup of tea. Not that I'm much better with it myself. Rebecca said something about having a word with him about it . . . or was that about setting up a better target for throwing knives in her cabin? There's been an issue, I gather, with cracking the veneer of the inner cabin wall." 

"It's not the tea." Jules stared glumly at the cup at the table, inwardly admitting that he wouldn't know good tea from bad tea. "There's something--" He looked up, met Fogg's gaze. "The money I borrowed - I didn't return it as we'd agreed." 

Fogg stared at him in bewilderment for a moment, as if completely baffled by the sudden change in the topic. "Return it?" 

"I was to pay you back within a fortnight. That was . . . two days ago." Jules swallowed uncomfortably and looked away, counting back days to verify the calculation. "Yes, two days ago. I have some money - my father sent my allowance, but I need to get the bank note changed. When I'm back on my feet, I plan to sell some of my books--" 

"Why would you do that? Verne, there's no payment due. The matter is settled." 

Much as his heart was gladdened to hear that, his pride rose up angrily. He met Fogg's gaze again. "I don't want charity." 

"It's hardly charity. Wait--" Fogg gestured for him to remain seated, an imperious wave of the hand, as he rose and opened a glass cabinet at the other side of the room. He removed something from within, then returned to the table. Slipping the gold money clip from the banknotes, he tossed them down before Verne. "There it is. You can count it, if you like." 

Jules reached his hand out to touch them, but saw a dark brown stain upon the upper bill - his fingers would not move toward the money. It was his turn for bewilderment and he stared up at Fogg. 

"All there," repeated Phileas evenly. "Well, perhaps but for ten francs or so. I retrieved it from that villain the night we recovered the child." 

"Retrieved--?" All franc notes looked the same to Jules - they were never in his possession long enough for him to make any distinction beyond the worth of the note. 

"You said he'd stolen it from you when they'd taken Aimee." Fogg gestured down at the bills. "There it is. We shall consider the shortfall an unfortunate result of the affair. The matter of the loan is settled." 

The brown stain. "He didn't . . . return it to you." His dealings with Dondre had been limited, and more often painful than not, but he was well aware that any money that had fallen into the pimp's hands would not have left easily, even when confronted by the formidable civility of a gentleman such as Phileas Fogg. Fingers shaking, Verne finally got his hands to obey him, reaching out to pick up the money-- 

But Fogg was faster, flicking the bills from their jumble into an even pile, flipping them in half, and then sealing the bundle with the money clip. "Settled, as I said." The money clip and the contents disappeared inside Fogg's coat. "Think on it no longer. Better than you should concentrate on the end of your convalescence, your studies, and your writing." 

Blood. 

There had been blood on the bills and a goodly amount of it. Jules continued to hold Fogg's gaze, his mind working frantically. Had the bandaged hands been a dream or a reality? What had been Rebecca's role, or Passepartout, in this matter? He had missed so much, so very much, while he'd been sleeping. 

"How?" he asked. And then, realizing that there was so much more to the question than that one word entailed, amended it to, "What happened?" 

Fogg looked away for a moment, studying the wall of the cabin with an intensity Verne certainly would have found unnerving had the gaze been directed at himself. A second passed, only that much before Fogg looked at him again and said firmly, "It was an affair of honor between . . . gentlemen." 

An evasion, not a lie - there was some comfort to be taken in that. They would have made a pact between them not to tell; those who had coined the English expression 'thick as thieves,' could have easily amended it to 'thick as Foggs,' without having lost any nuance of meaning. He was being shielded from something they knew was too horrible for him to approve or accept. In time he might learn more of the details, but the Foggs had decided the immediate matter on his behalf. 

It was maddening in a fashion, in the same way that a too-cautious relative might seem overprotective. But that was how friends treated other friends. How family treated their own. 

It was up to him to determine how he would react, how he would take this gesture on their part. Fogg was watching him with what any casual acquaintance would view as polite interest. But Verne had seen enough by now to know that he was waiting for a response and that response would be conveyed to Rebecca when she inquired after it. It was important to them. 

_He_ was important to them. 

Jules did not need to ask the questions now. His suspicions could remain as such, for the moment. Without asking, he knew that Dondre was dead - the blood was to tell him that much. The man who had beaten him . . . not to be considered at this time. Aimee rescued, her final hours in Dondre's company less important than her safety and placement in a true home. 

"It's all settled, then," he said, a firm note of conclusion in his tone so the intent was to be unmistakable. He then added, "Thank you." 

There was a brief look of relief on Fogg's face, which disappeared behind an entirely civil and socially required acknowledgment of his gratitude, punctuated by a quick heel click and brief bow. The entire reaction was far too formal for the salon of the Aurora, but seemed right somehow, maintaining the somber mood until Fogg seated himself, picked up his teacup, and sipped at it. 

"Blast," he whispered, then called "Passepartout?" 

The valet appeared from the kitchen, removing an apron from around his waist as he came through the door. "Luncheon is almost readies, Master." 

"Very good. I think we might leave for Dijon now, if you're so inclined. And . . . I think coffee?" Fogg glanced over at Jules, as in search of support. "Verne's not much for tea." 

"A character flaw," agreed Jules quickly. "The café's isn't any good and mine's not much better." 

"We shall be casting off at once," said Passepartout, accentuating his comment with a slight bow toward Fogg. "And there will be coffees directly." 

"Thank you, Passepartout." It was only after Passepartout headed toward the navigational unit that Fogg shared a look of commiseration with Jules and pushed away his teacup in despair. "One wonders how difficult it could be. Do you know he actually had the nerve to put cinnamon in my Darjeeling the other day?" 

Jules leaned back into the chair, finally relaxed. His stomach had settled down - he was even looking forward to the luncheon Passepartout had promised. As an afterthought, he reached across the table and grabbed his sketchbook. Pulling the pencil from the binding, he opened the book to a blank page, considering the problems attendant upon the making of tea, such as he understood the process. "Perhaps Rebecca will have a solution." 

"That's something we must also discuss." Jules looked up, startled, as Fogg placed a hand lightly on his arm. "There's to be no word to Rebecca about this trip to Dijon." 

"She doesn't . . . know." Jules closed his mouth deliberately, before any other foolish words could escape. Of course Rebecca didn't know they were going to Dijon, or she'd have moved heaven and earth to accompany them, even defying Chatsworth his academic retribution. "Where does she think you've gone?" 

"To check on your continued well-being, of course." When Jules blinked at him in surprise, Fogg fixed him with a steady gaze. "Come, Verne, we aren't foolish enough to believe that you'd follow Dr. Picot's instructions precisely to the letter, particularly his admonition to exercise. Both Rebecca and I have suffered injuries in the past - we're aware that a taskmaster is not only invaluable but also irreplaceable in such instances. Speaking of which--" Fogg removed his pocket watch from his vest and checked the time. "We'll take a stroll around the deck at a quarter past the hour for each hour of our journey. Would that be agreeable to you?" 

"Um - yes." 

"Good." The watch went back into his pocket and Jules had the sudden impression that it would not need to be checked again to determine the exact moment the agreed-upon time arrived. "In addition," continued Fogg, with an air of utter bafflement, "she seems determined to introduce to Chatsworth the idea of training canines to assist in search and rescue operations. Which means that we shall spend the length of the return trip to England avoiding the affections of that insufferable bloodhound." 

Jules had a vague memory of a long snout, an even longer tongue, and sad eyes almost hidden by fleshy folds. "I think I remember. Bruce, wasn't it?" 

"A name that will continue to instill horror in every respectable tailor in Saville Row, yes." 

Fogg sighed as if in disgust, causing Jules to smile; he'd gotten the impression that the attitude was more a matter of show than of true feeling. But there had been something said about . . . England? "We'll be returning to Paris from Dijon?" 

"If only to fetch that dreadful hound, yes. Unless you have other plans and can't spare a day or so to convalesce at Shillingworth Magna?" There was a pause as Fogg cleared his throat. "I can't promise you an entirely pleasant time there. Rebecca mentioned something about 'hiking' which invariably involves stomping about in wooded areas for no discernible rhyme nor reason." 

Jules laughed this time. And then he remembered what Dr. Picot had said, about Miss Fogg being vehemently opposed to waking the child to say good-bye and Fogg being of a contrary mindset. This trip was evidently Fogg's idea. Was the stay at Shillingworth Magna a bribe to buy his silence in the matter? 

No. Because it would have been just as easy to have bypassed Paris entirely and head straight to Dijon from London. Fogg could quite easily have checked on Jules on his way back from Dijon, when he picked up the dog. "Verne?" 

"I'm sorry." He shook his head as if trying to disentangle a dozen different lines of thought from his brain. "It's just that, trying to keep something like this from Rebecca . . . ." 

"A daunting prospect," agreed Fogg sternly. "But not impossible. Besides, we'll adhere to the letter of the agreement - we may see the child, but she may not see or speak with us. That may be considered an argument in our favor when Rebecca finally discovers our subterfuge." 

His automatic inclusion as a conspirator would have been heartening, if it hadn't involved trying to get something past the vigilant Rebecca Fogg. 

Fogg rose to his feet. "It's time for our first stroll around the deck. We'll finish in time for luncheon." 

Unlike Passepartout, who seemed to hover invisibly, always ready to lend assistance if need be, Fogg merely stepped to one side of the salon, watching as Jules pushed himself up from his chair. It was hard enough to stand for a few seconds, his knees incredibly stiff and threatening to collapse beneath him if he didn't lock them in place. He'd noticed that feeling passed once he started moving, if he continued to move. 

Their pace around the deck was measured, Fogg walking leisurely along beside him, making no comment if he were forced to grab the handrail for support. Nor did he seem to offer any assistance, which was something of a surprise, although Jules suspected that if something had gone wrong Fogg would have intercepted his fall before he could hit the deck or do himself further injury. It was cold outside without his jacket, the bracing wind retaining more of a bite as their altitude increased, and yet it helped to be cold, helped him to concentrate on something other than the ache of movement. After their first circuit, Fogg removed his own coat with momentary assistance from Passepartout, claiming some nonsense about feeling confined. 

They talked, but what they talked about he couldn't say - casual things. Jules couldn't much remember if they strolled the circuit of the Aurora five times or fifteen times during the brief walk. He realized after the fact that Fogg had picked up the pace just as they had begun to argue about something of no real consequence. He'd been forced not only to defend his point, but also push himself to match the pace set by his friend or risk not being heard above the wind. 

The argument continued through luncheon, the topic moving from transport to the effects of military campaigns on the commerce of nations, and perhaps back again. After luncheon had settled, they left the table to be cleared and walked the perimeter of the cabin in the same pattern as before. Jules' legs ached and he felt chilled by the time he returned to the salon, but his range of motion had markedly improved. Passepartout placed a blanket around his shoulders and delivered both a cup of hot chocolat and a small bowl of warm soup, both of which proved better than the fare offered at the café. 

Jules was not entirely certain when he fell asleep. His shoulder was shaken and he started awake to find Passepartout leaning over the chaise lounge and grinning at him. "Time to be waking, Jules." 

"Are we there?" He yawned, stretched his arms and, delicately, shifted his legs from the lounge to the floor. 

"We are having arrived, yes." 

Passepartout leaned down to place his shoulder beneath Jules' arm, helping him to stand. He grabbed the table for support, but there was no real pain attached to the process of initial movement after waking - the first time that had happened since the assault. A few steps were awkward, slow, but he was moving unaided across the cabin in a matter of minutes. 

Fogg descended at the spiral staircase, checking his cuffs. "Verne - good to see you up and about. Are we ready, then?" 

"The Aurora is secured, master," announced Passepartout, as he helped Jules into his jacket. "I will be planning supper upon your return." 

"No, you're to come with us." Fogg hesitated a moment, as if a sudden thought had struck him, and cleared his throat. "If that's amenable to you, Passepartout." 

"Oh yes, master. I would be most interested in seeings the littles girl again." 

"Excellent." 

Jules leaned his back against the wall and shook his head in wonder - Fogg had changed his clothing entirely. It was late afternoon, and the dark blue suit he now wore was the height of fashion for the hour. Only the ash walking stick in his hand seemed out of place . . . until Fogg tossed it to him. 

"Here, Verne. Something to aid your steps." 

He caught it awkwardly, then held it in both hands as he looked it over. It was a solid enough stick, with no discernible ornamentation, although the knob at the top was most certainly made of gold. That was enough to give Jules pause. "No, I'll just get it dirty. What if I left it somewhere?" 

"It can be cleaned. _And_ replaced easily enough." Fogg continued down the stairs, retrieving his dark walnut stick with the silver handle from Passepartout, along with his hat. "Try it. You'll be glad enough for the use of it on the way back. Even with Passepartout lighting our way, it's bound to be pitch dark." 

With a nod of acquiescence and a shared look of commiseration with Passepartout - trying to change Fogg's mind once it was set would have been a Herculean task at best - Jules hefted the stick in his hand and followed Fogg out of the cabin. 

It wasn't too long a walk from the field where the Aurora had been moored to the edge of town, but Jules was glad to have the use of the walking stick before they'd gone more than a hundred steps from the airship. The sunlight was fast fading to the west. He tried to keep pace with Fogg's longer stride and, failing that, found that Fogg slowed his steps sufficiently to accommodate his limitations. Passepartout walked behind them, a bundle beneath his arm and the unlit lantern swinging from his right hand. 

"You never did tell me the name of Dr. Picot's friend," noted Jules, as they finally stepped clear of the dirt road and began to encounter the cobbled paving of the city streets. 

"I thought it wise not to ask." When Jules stared at him, Fogg met his glance briefly, then looked away. "And wiser still to continue that practice." 

He lost a step in disbelief and then hurried to catch up again. "But if we don't know his name, how can we keep track of Aimee?" And then, "Oh," as he began to realize what exactly it would mean to walk away, never looking back, never reminding her of how she had come to her new life. Destroy the bridge, wasn't that what Fogg had said? At the time he'd thought the words over-dramatic and yet now, when they meant something, there was a weight to them that threatened to crush some part of his soul. 

His heart beat faster, less from the exertion of the trek than from the tumult of emotions he was experiencing. As Fogg led them up one street and down another from the outskirts of the town to its heart, Jules nearly called halt on two separate occasions. Could he bear to see Aimee and know that this would be the last time? Wouldn't it be better to return to the Aurora now? He could beg off on his inability to continue; surely Fogg would release him from this obligation? 

The last time he'd seen her, she'd been held captive in Dondre's arms. Aimee had been crying, screaming his name . . . he'd been unable to save her. Hardly a final image he wanted to preserve for the rest of his days. If he could only assure himself that she would be happy . . . . 

He'd begun to suspect that many of the streets were beginning to look familiar because Fogg was leading them in circles, the better to confuse their final destination. Darkness had finally fallen by the time they reached a small house on the corner of a common street, yet it was not to the main entrance that Fogg led them, but a side door. 

"Is a dispensary," noted Passepartout quietly. "The doctor's patients would be waitings there." 

"Not at this time of night." Fogg cast a glance over his shoulder at them. "But we're expected." 

He had barely rung the small brass bell that hung from doorframe before the door opened. This doctor was no adherent to Parisian court style as had been Dr. Picot - his sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and an apron hung over his shirtfront and down to his trousers. His hair was blonde, long at the back and slightly unkempt. There was a wary expression in his brown eyes as he nodded once to Fogg, then stepped inside, indicating they join him. 

The room was clean, smelling faintly of acid solutions and sulfur. Whitewashed walls, decorated with framed pictures and drawings, gleamed in the faint light of the gas lamps. A tumble of chairs and wooden benches had been pushed to one side of the room, giving it a hollow, empty feel. 

The doctor, if that was who he was, studied them carefully. Jules suddenly felt awkward in his less than pristine clothing, especially standing beside the immaculate grandeur of Phileas Fogg, who had removed his hat upon entering. 

"I received your message, Monsieur Fogg," said the doctor in a quiet tone. "But I'll admit it confused me. You had agreed, the three of you, there was to be no further contact. If you've come to retrieve the child, I assure you, monsieur, that I will fight you--" 

Fogg placed his hand on the doctor's shoulder - the man's face had flushed and he'd obviously spent the last several hours in an agitated state. "We've no intention of taking the child from you." When the doctor glanced again at them in turn, Fogg added, "Let me introduce Monsieur Verne - he's the one who found the child. And my valet, Passepartout." 

Jules stepped forward to take the man's hand and saw some recognition of his identity in the doctor's eyes. Instead of a handshake he was drawn into the other man's arms. "God bless you, Monsieur Verne. God bless you for what you have done." 

There wasn't much Jules could do but accept the embrace, as dizzying as it was, then struggle to retain his footing as the doctor released him and turned to take Passepartout's hand in greeting with a friendly, "Monsieur." 

Fogg lifted his hand near his mouth, but couldn't quite hide the smile caused by Jules' consternation at the sudden effusion of affection from the doctor. "Dr. Picot informed our friend of the part you played in saving the child, Verne." 

"Forgive my rudeness, Monsieur Fogg, but after we had discussed what was to be done and then to receive the telegram that said only that you were to arrive this evening?" He glanced over at Fogg, eyes contrite and yet still suspicious. "You appear at my door with two men I have not met. What was I to think?" 

"I should beg your pardon most humbly, and _do_," said Fogg. "It was thoughtless of me. Verne was indisposed when we were last here; his final encounter with the child involved dire circumstances. I thought he might have a chance to see her, one last time?" 

Jules took an awkward step forward, the throbbing in his lower legs and knees stilled to insignificance when compared with the insistent, nervous rhythm of the heart in his chest. "Please?" he asked anxiously. "Just to see her. And if not that, to _know_ she's well and happy." Catching the doctor's arm, he added, "Is she all right?" 

The question he dared not ask - 'Does she think of me?' - would remain unanswered. 

"The wounds of her body have been healing, yes," said the doctor, placing his own hand briefly over the grip Jules had on his arm. "We've been cautious in feeding her - she eats little, but often. My wife has taken to sleeping with her, but she wanders at night. I often find her curled against my back in the morning. She's beginning to understand that we have no intent to strike her. Raymond--Dr. Picot--" he corrected, seeing their lack of recognition of the initial name, "and your friends had warned us of what we might expect. We have not been disappointed in the challenges, or in our small successes. Her laughter is our greatest joy." 

"You'll be able to help her?" 

Jules started, hearing Fogg's quiet and almost-too-steady voice behind him - he'd been concentrating entirely on the doctor's answer. He looked back to the doctor for confirmation, knowing that there was so much _not_ being said . . . and yet was unable himself to find the words to ask. 

The doctor paused, then nodded. "I believe so. We're doing all within our power to give her the happiness she's been so long denied. If there's anyone you might call upon to help Aimee, I ask you to send him to me. I have no professional pride in this matter - only a firm resolve to aid my daughter, in any way I can." 

Daughter. 

It stunned Jules for a moment - a word of ownership, of belonging. Though he'd wished with all of his heart that someone might use that word to describe Aimee, it could not help but remind him how much in his world had been changed by the events of the last two weeks, how much he had lost. 

"Forgive me, gentlemen - you had caught me at my preparations for tomorrow's patients." The doctor lifted his apron from his neck and folded it over his arm, then led them to a door set in the far wall. "This leads to my office and laboratory. There's a window from which you may view the interior of the greenhouse. Aimee has chosen that as her play area - her dolls are kept there now." 

"Does she want for anything, doctor?" asked Fogg. Clearing his throat and looking away, he added, "Please forgive me, for the last thing I want is to insult you, but if there's any need--?" 

"I would forgive you any insult, Monsieur Fogg, for the debt I owe you in having brought Aimee into our lives. Save for time, care, and love enough - which are in no small supply in this household - she has no needs the income from my practice cannot meet." He hesitated a moment, a shadow in his eyes. "When our daughter, our _first_ daughter, left us, she was but a year or so older than Aimee. My wife couldn't bring herself to part with the child's things. Aimee adopted the collection of dolls immediately." He smiled sadly. "I suppose I must relearn their names all over again." 

They followed the doctor across the room. His hand on the doorknob, he hesitated once more. "There will be no lights within, so that we might not be seen from below. I must ask you to be quiet, monsieurs, to speak only in whispers - sound carries from this room so awkwardly sometimes." 

"There will be no outbursts," promised Fogg, casting a death-filled glare at both Passepartout and Jules, who nodded their assent to the restriction. 

Thus it was in a somber mood they headed up the staircase and to the second floor. The doctor's office was divided between a desk and something akin to a laboratory, which normally would have drawn Jules' immediate attention. He smiled to himself as they passed by the racks of glass piping, catching Passepartout's covetous glance at a piece of equipment. Fogg, undistracted by the promises of science, passed them and was the first to take his place at the window. 

"A glass house," Jules whispered, but not too loudly, for neither Passepartout nor Fogg would know what the phrase had meant to Aimee. 

The roof of the greenhouse was just beneath them - were they acrobats they could easily have opened the window and stepped out upon it, although Jules would have wagered only Passepartout could have successfully navigated the apex of the steeply sloped roof. The plants within had been trimmed back for the approaching winter and the glass, although tinted, was clear paned and not hand-blown. There were gas lamps within, making it easier to view the silent tableau. 

The doctor's wife was pretty, but not uncommonly so, with dark ringlets pulled back from her face. If Jules were pushed to make an opinion or comment, he would have decided that her clothing was not this year's fashion, but perhaps belonging to the year before. It was attractive, at any rate, and suited her. She was kneeling beside a miniature, white-enameled table upon which had been set a child-sized china tea set. Small chairs ranged around the edge - he could count at least seven dolls, some of which were lying on the table itself. Across the table was seated Aimee, diligently pouring tea for her dolls. 

She was speaking - he could see her lips moving. Her hair was clean and curled and trimmed. The smock she was wearing actually seemed to fit. Her face was scrubbed and she was smiling, laughing as the doctor's wife reached across the table to tickle her. Dolls were scattered as she scrambled over the other chairs to reach the woman and climb into her lap. 

From this distance he couldn't see the detail of the china or hear the child's words, but imagination would fill that in later. This gave him something to build on, something to remember. 

"This was a good day for her," said the doctor very softly, from beside Jules. "They have not all been good. They will not all be good. But she's ours now and we'll care for her as best we can." 

There were no words for the moment - his throat was blocked and he couldn't speak them. But he grasped the doctor's upper arm and smiled his thanks, hoping that his expression could be seen in the light from the greenhouse below. Wiping his forearm across his eyes, he turned and saw Passepartout also had moved away. 

"The littles girl will be happy," he said, in a very quiet voice, as he approached Jules. His eyes, too, were glistening. "She will be very happys." 

Only Fogg remained at the window. Perhaps he had greater strength of will than any of them, for Jules knew he could bear to see no more without his heart breaking. He watched as the doctor approached Fogg and touched his arm gently. "Monsieur?" 

"I would like," began Fogg, then he paused to clear his throat as he, too, stepped back from the window and turned his full attention on the doctor. "I'll speak with her, before we leave." 

"No," said Jules softly, a chill seizing his heart when he saw the determined look on Fogg's face. Using the cane, he all but stumbled in his haste, moving between Fogg and the bewildered doctor. "No. We _agreed_." 

Fogg wouldn't look at him, turning his face back toward the window. "A few words. What harm could they do?" 

"No. It's wrong. We can't." 

The cane was knocked out of his hand by an unexpected blow - it clattered to the floor and rested there. Jules should have fallen, but that Fogg grabbed the shoulder of his jacket, holding him on his feet. "By what _right_ do you deny me this?" Fogg hissed, glaring at him imperiously, with cold and angry eyes. "There's no reason--" 

"We _agreed_," repeated Jules softly, filled with a sudden, intense anger in the face of Fogg's obstinacy. "Do you think I don't want to go down there to hug her and hear her laugh? That I don't want to say good-bye? How _dare_ you think you have more right than - than _any_ of us!" He pulled his shoulder from beneath Fogg's grasp, managing to stay on his feet well enough without the cane to back up a step. "It's still true, what you told me; we're part of her past, not her future. If what we did, if what happened, is going to mean anything, we have to walk away. We have to walk away." 

Jules' voice, although quiet, had echoed to the very rafters of the small room. His anger kept him on his feet, kept him facing Fogg - which he knew any man with half his sanity intact would never have done. His breath came in gasps, as if he'd run a mile. And _still_ he would have struck Fogg if the man had taken a step toward the window again. 

Fogg was watching him with careful eyes, as if gauging his resolve. The moment of cold anger had gone, replaced with even colder civility. "Passepartout, if you'd be so kind as to give that parcel to the doctor. It's for the child. A parting gift - money to be set aside for her dowry . . . and a d-doll." 

There was the crackle of paper wrapping as Passepartout handed over the parcel. Jules stood immobile, less afraid to move than unable to move, for the anger hadn't completely left him. Fogg continued to watch his eyes, but said nothing. 

"Who shall I saw it's from, Monsieur?" asked the doctor, his own voice indicating this episode had shaken him. 

"Say only that it's a gift from a friend - that will suffice. No--" Fogg continued to stare at Jules, hadn't looked away, hadn't blinked. "I gather the child asks after Verne - Jules?" 

His heart stopped, waiting for the answer from the doctor. 

"Yes. Often. But Monsieur--?" 

"You will tell her--" Fogg hesitated, a faint smile on his lips, "You will tell her that Jules had to go away, far away. But that he's sent this doll to her, to replace the one that was lost." 

It was taking more of his will to simply stand in place. Jules couldn't let this happen. Better that she not remember, better that she forget them all. 

Better that she forget him. 

"Fogg--don't--" 

Even he could hear the half-hearted note in his own protest. 

"If she remembers something of this," said Fogg softly, "better that it be you." He raised his voice, saying, "Would you have any objections to that, doctor?" 

"If that's your wish." 

"I don't think it should be otherwise." 

And then Passepartout's voice, from behind them, "Master? If we are to be leavings--?" 

"Yes. Quite." Only then did Fogg look past Jules again, toward the doctor. "I'm sorry, doctor, for having inconvenienced you and your family - my regards to your lovely wife. You must know that we're grateful, will always _be_ grateful, for what you've done for the child. Rest assured that unless you ask for our help - which will be given at any time, under any circumstances - you will never see or hear from us again." 

"I think," said the doctor nervously, "that would be best." 

"Indeed." Fogg cleared his throat, adding, "Gentlemen, we've overstayed our welcome. Verne, Passepartout?" 

Jules very much felt like collapsing to the floor - without that anger to sustain him, he was almost afraid to move. Fogg retrieved the cane and pressed it into his hand, then caught hold of his arm with such a supportive grip that Jules guessed it might have taken some amount of explosive to wrest himself free of it. 

"Can you manage the stairs?" asked Fogg, as Passepartout and the doctor were arranging a light for the lantern. 

"Yes." Jules wasn't as certain as he sounded, not with his knees shaking and his weight all but resting on the cane and Fogg's arm, but he wasn't about to let Fogg know that. Taking the steps slowly, he managed better than even he had expected. There was only the space across the room and to the door to be traveled, and then he rested against the portico railing as Fogg shook hands with the doctor. 

The young doctor turned to Jules, clasping his shoulder with a firm grip. "Never worry for her welfare," he promised. "She'll be much loved." 

After the door had closed, only Passepartout's lantern seemed to shed any light; dark clouds skidding over the moon obscured what little starlight should have been visible. The route back to the Aurora was less circuitous this time, shorter by at least three-quarters of an hour, and still it was a difficult journey for Jules. There was silence among them and not such a comfortable silence, either. It didn't seem entirely wrong to accept Passepartout's help as he entered the cabin, or to collapse on the chaise lounge without even removing his coat. 

Phileas, of course, doffed his hat, cane, and gloves, those going to Passepartout immediately. His jacket followed so that he was in his shirtsleeves. Jules lay flat on his back with his feet on the lounge, too weary to feel guilty about the mud from his boots scraping off on the cushions. He didn't much care what Fogg was doing and stared up at the ceiling of the salon, listening to the clink of crystal - the decanter - and liquid being poured. 

The memory of the look in Fogg's eye, that anger aching for release, sent a chill through him. He couldn't quite believe it - he'd stood up to Fogg, and survived. Not only that, he'd stood up to Fogg . . . and won. 

And then Fogg was standing over him, a glass of . . . something in his hand. "This will help." 

"For medicinal use, only?" Jules asked, then winced at the sharpness of his own words. Swinging his legs from the couch and to the floor, he took the offered glass and looked up. "I'm sorry. That was rude." 

Fogg cleared his throat and lifted his own glass toward the light as if inspecting the contents. "But not entirely undeserved. I owe you an apology." 

"No, you don't--" 

"Yes, I do," said Fogg sharply, seating himself in the chair he'd given to Jules earlier. "You forgive too easily, Verne." 

The liquor was sharp, burning as it went down his throat. "Another--" he coughed at the sudden fire in his chest, "another flaw in my character." 

"Hardly. If anything, I've found your character insufficiently flawed." 

Jules considered the comment for a moment, staring at the brown liquid - what was it, scotch? - and wondered whether he should take the words as a compliment or a condemnation of his youth. He took another sip of the stuff and found it went down easier the second time, particularly if he didn't try to breathe immediately after drinking. "You weren't thinking." 

"I struck a cane from your hand." 

"You were upset." 

Fogg swallowed the remains of his own liquor, slammed the glass on the table and stood up. "Damn you, man! At least allow me to apologize. Stop making excuses for me." 

Jules blinked, then set his own glass down on the table very carefully - the scotch was going straight to his head. "All right - I accept your apology for knocking the cane out of my hand. And for grabbing my jacket. And for shouting at me." Considering the glass again, he picked it up, took another sip, and decided that he might not want to be entirely conscious at that. "Is that all?" 

"No. I need to apologize for dragging you here under a false pretext." 

Jules nearly dropped the glass to the table in surprise; the fumes that had been making him light-headed suddenly seeming to disappear. "You wanted to give me a chance to see Aimee one last time?" 

Fogg had begun to pace. "Yes, of course." 

"But . . . there was another reason." It would have been easy to have by-passed Paris completely and gone directly from London to Dijon. Why make the stop, why take the chance of letting one more person, particularly one who couldn't lie worth a damn, in on a secret trip which would only anger Rebecca? 

It was starting to make sense. 

"You wanted me with you when you went to see Aimee," announced Jules, staring at the liquid in his glass again as he puzzled out the problem. Startled, he stared up at Fogg, speaking his thoughts aloud. "You didn't trust yourself to adhere to the rules you'd set down. You wanted me . . . to stop you?" It was enough of a shock to cause him to upend the whiskey down his throat, swallowing the fiery stuff before squeaking, "You thought _I_ could stop you?" 

"A slight correction - I _knew_ you could." With a sigh, Fogg retrieved the decanter and set it on the table after calmly pouring another scotch for each of them. "Passepartout would have tried to cajole me from the mistake - it wouldn't have worked in that situation. Rebecca, of course, would have cheerfully knocked me into next midweek . . . and may yet, if she ever gets wind of this." Fogg sipped at the second scotch, the glass finally resting in his cupped hands. "But you," he pointed toward Jules, "would likely try to talk me around out of common sense, which might have succeeded. The one thing I hadn't expected from you was that surge of righteous anger. Never underestimate a man fueled by righteous anger, Verne - he's a dangerous opponent." 

Jules looked down at the second glass in front of him. It might have been the scotch, but he found himself smiling at the comment. Dangerous? _Him?_ It was so utterly absurd. 

As absurd as the normally unflappable Phileas Fogg striking a cane from the hand of an injured man? 

"I'll accept your apology," Jules said, pushing away the second glass, "if you'll tell me why." 

Fogg raised an eyebrow. "Why?" 

"Why you became so attached to Aimee." He leaned forward, hands clasped together on his knees, and stared at his fingertips. "Aimee reminded me of my sisters. Rebecca - well, she's a woman and with women . . . it's obvious." 

"You underestimate Rebecca," Fogg warned softly. 

He dismissed the comment with a wave, having warmed to his subject. "Passepartout has such a sense of fun that he's like a child himself sometimes. But you--" He stared at Fogg for a long moment, then shook his head. "I was certain you'd want nothing to do with her, and I was wrong," he admitted quickly, seeing Fogg's brow furrow. "Then I was certain it was because of what had been done to her, that you were angered that 'gentlemen,' men of standing and property, could do something like that to a child. I still think that's part of the answer, but I can't figure out the rest of it. I can't figure out why." 

Silence fell between them. Jules watched as Fogg turned his head, staring across the room as if considering the matter. He suspected that he'd pushed too hard and that he wasn't going to receive any answer, for Phileas Fogg could be a very private man. 

Then Fogg leaned forward and pushed the second glass of scotch back toward Jules. "Drink." 

He hesitated, then picked up the glass and weighed it in his hand. Whether Fogg was trying to get him drunk to avoid answering the question or had realized that his questions were an attempt to distract himself from the throbbing pain in his legs, he couldn't say. In any case, the drink seemed to be required before he was going to get any type of an answer, so-- 

It burned, much as the first one had, but there was less unpleasantness about it. Finishing, he turned his head and coughed violently for a second or two, then placed the empty glass upside down on the table. 

"Your--" another cough, "--turn." 

Fogg did him one better, tossing the liquid down the back of his throat as if it were water. Jules was not at all surprised to see the man completely unfazed by the action. Then Fogg folded his hands elegantly upon his knee and fixed Jules with an unwavering gaze. "You said that you have three sisters and a brother, all younger?" 

"Fogg, it's not fair to answer - to answer a question - with a question." Damn Scotch. 

"Answer - three sisters and a brother?" 

"Well . . . yes," he managed, without tripping over his tongue too badly. 

"And that was all?" 

Remembering how full the household could seem when they might be home on holiday, Jules found the question didn't make sense. "All? That was more than enough! How could there be more?" 

It was his friend's serious demeanor that sobered him and the softly echoed question, "Indeed, how _could_ there be more?" before Fogg rose and walked away, toward the observation window. 

How could there be more? Families were extended when many generations and branches gathered beneath one roof - that would increase the number of children. Then there were the distant relations that were acquired from misfortune. Rebecca had mentioned something of having grown up at Shillingworth Magna as a ward of Fogg's father, Sir Boniface, which led him to believe that her immediate family might have perished in an accident or illness. He didn't know how old she'd been at the time, but now wondered how that must have been for her. Death was so difficult for children to-- 

Death. 

Children. 

It was so common. He'd never thought about it because his family was among the lucky ones - all of the children born had survived infancy. There'd never been a need in his immediate family for a tiny coffin, a small crypt or headstone . . . yet he'd seen so many in other families as he'd grown and never given a thought to them. 

Until now. 

If time had passed, he wasn't aware of it. Jules found himself slipping down the seat of the lounge. He looked up and saw Fogg standing over him with a faint, rueful smile. 

"I didn't . . . know." It was embarrassing - two scotches and he was almost incoherent. If Jules closed his eyes and thought hard, he couldn't remember having seen the first being poured. Had Fogg given him something? Or was he just tired, so tired, from all he'd accomplished today? 

Perhaps he'd spoken aloud, for Fogg answered, "You'll be doing far more tomorrow, once Rebecca decides you're fit enough to go hiking." 

He fought to open his eyes; his legs were lifted to the chaise lounge and then a blanket was thrown over him. The jets in the gas lamps were lowered and the room seemed to blur like a watercolor left in the rain. 

Passepartout's voice, "--Miss Rebecca is being angry--to be so ill and drinking--" 

"It dulls the ache," answered Fogg's voice. "Or so I've found." 

The words echoed in his brain, even as a pillow was placed beneath his head and his boots were removed. To dull the ache--the ache in his knees, the ache of saying a final farewell to Aimee, the ache of never having known a sister who might have lived a few short hours or days or years. Too much aching for a human heart to bear and yet they all did bear it in their own fashion. 

It was the 'how' that interested him. That's where he would find the true worth of adventure - not in his visions, or in the danger, but in his friendships. It was through these friendships that he'd learn to understand the complexities of the human mind and the human heart. 

It was through these friendships that he'd learn to write about them. 

Jules opened his eyes and tried to say as much to the blurry room, but as hard as he fought, the words came out garbled. 

Fogg, whiskey glass in hand and seated in a chair not so far to his right, said simply, "Go to sleep, Verne." 

He did, and was free from the tyrannies the visions imposed upon his mind and body . . . at least for one more night of blessed, restful slumber. 

**** 

End of Chapter Thirteen 

**** 

End of the story. 

There's nothing to see here. You may all return to your homes. And remember to put out the torches, please. 

Thank you. 


End file.
